Book One: Lost
by Aurorarose
Summary: Buffy starts a new life in New York City under the alias of Anne. Takes place after the episode Becoming 2.
1. Winter's Arrival

Book One: Lost ****

Book One: Lost

By: Aurorarose13

****

Chapter One – Winter's Arrival

The sprawling metropolis sprouted like a giant's garden before her very eyes. Tall, thin, stony stalks of concrete plants flourished even in the biting weather, taking the harsh lashings of wind as though they were nothing but invisible breezes. The insects scuttling at their bases, however, were not so lucky, for they felt every freezing gust Mother Nature offered, and they shivered even through their thick shells of fur and wool. The silver and gray blades—speckled with shimmering flecks of glass—of a macabre stone and steel grass jutted from the asphalt soil and scraped the sky with their needle-like tips, manipulating the black clouds surrounding them. The lack of color within the realm was frightening, like something straight out of a horror novel. Everything was gray and white and black… everything. And the worst part of all was that all three hues melted together to form a grossly painted mural, stretching from one end of the horizon to the other and resembling the kinds of paintings Salvador Dali created.

A blast of icy winter wind snapped Buffy's ankle-length jacket roughly against the back of her thin legs, and she lost her concentration momentarily—thankfully. Pellets of silver ice rained down upon her blackened figure and coated her hair and shoulders with a ghostly layer of white. Wispy, ethereal fingers of steam radiated out from underneath the ice, melting into the clouds of fog drifting lackadaisically past her bony face. The thickly polluted air wound its way into her eyes, stinging them with a hot fire, and a single, solitary tear slipped down her cheek. Buffy imagined the water beginning to freeze already, so she wiped it quickly away with her jacket sleeve; and with the tear she managed to also wipe away all of her hopes of leaving this God-forsaken city.

By now Buffy was in too deep into her own mess, and she wished more than anything that she were back home, in her little town of Sunnydale with her friends and family. She loathed the new life she had here: the low paying waitressing job; the dingy apartment she owned, furnished with but a few scant decorations; her mediocre day-to-day routine. Each interminable day Buffy found it harder and harder to believe that she actually _missed_ her slayer lifestyle. Yet each day further she thrust herself into the crowded city, overflowing with strange new faces, the more she found herself yearning to go back to _it_. Back to the very thing that had driven her away in the first place. Back to the very same people who had driven her away. 

Here, Buffy had no friends; of course, she didn't have any enemies either, only acquaintances. Here, she was but another face in the herd of people, just another number with no name or characteristics to set her apart from anyone else. Here, she was just as much a stranger to the rest of the world as she was to her own self, and there wasn't much she could do to change that. Work offered her little to no chance to get to know anyone. Everyday it was just more faces, all new, yet all seemingly identical to one another. Their physiognomies wore dark shadows as masks, concealing their true identities under the protective shades of black. The only way she could even learn anything about someone was if he or she were a repeat customer, who he or she rarely ever was—at least, in Buffy's section of the restaurant the customers were hardly ever the same.

As Buffy sauntered through the chichi section of town and fought her way through the gatherings of shoppers racing about pell-mell, she took notice of how much more active New York was than her home town back west. Cabs screeched by, slamming on their brakes as potential customers flagged them down with their bags filled to the brims with their precious merchandise. The phlegmatic traffic jams clogged the roadway for miles, stretching out like a line of ants under the artificial canopy of skyscrapers and high-rises. Small shrubs and the sporadic tree dotted the sidewalks, and window boxes congested with dead ivies and withered flowers of all sizes draped gloomily from the sills, browning tendrils grasping urgently for a lifeline.

A mix of ice and wet snow poured forth from a slit in the belly of a single, enormous cloud dangling over the bustling metropolis. Minute piles of the mishmash collected on the millions of shoppers and the thousands of cars filling the streets. The frosted windows of the buildings, looming over the former slayer, appeared to her as the glazed eyes of the hundreds of cadavers she'd seen before in her other life, the one to which she yearned so desperately to return. 

Buffy rolled her shoulders uncomfortably underneath her jacket as she passed as quickly as she could through the streets lined with the faces of foreigners. All she could think about was how she would never know these people for who they really were. Some were probably drug dealers, others the drug users; some might very well be royalty, and yet others were probably just like her, struggling to get by in a world where no one _really_ knew anyone else, nor did they give a damn.

Strands of her golden hair slipped icily around her neck, slowly freezing into creepers of stone and forming tightening fingers which asphyxiated Buffy. The wind pressed insistently into her body, ignoring the protective shield of her jacket and piercing right into the core of her. Like a child's game, it chased the warmth right out of her body, leaving her shuddering in the cold. On days like this, Buffy always found herself wishing she were in California, where the weather was continuously warm and there wasn't a flake of snow in sight for miles and miles.

The dingy skyline glowed a filthy gray as plumes of smoke and toxic fumes met the clouds of pollution previously collected in the air, dancing an intricate ballet of unrequited love and romance. Snow fell from these clouds and onto the roofs of row houses practically lost in the smog, dirtying the sides of humongous stone giants, which teetered precariously in the fantastic, whipping wind. The former slayer stared intently at the sight as she made her way back to the apartment in the no-man's-land in which she dwelled—not her home, but simply the place in which she dwelled. People say home is where the heart is, and as Buffy reflected, if that were true, home was in Sunnydale—not here in Sunny_side_—and always would be.

As Buffy steadily neared her apartment, she observed the decline in class, evident by the types of housing and stores established in each region. She had gone from the lustrous, golden neighborhood of the wealthy, to the average neighborhood of the Tom, Dick and Harries of New York, to, finally, the darkened, bleak sector of the poverty-stricken lower class. 

This was the section of New York where the tourists never dared to venture. This was the section of New York where crime originated. This was the section of New York where its citizens who made minimum wage to support a family of four lived. This was the section of New York where Buffy resided. Here, within the disintegrating walls of an ancient apartment complex choked with dead vines and 100-year-old grime, was Buffy's house. Before it was a mass of litter strewn carelessly about its stony feet, almost like an offering to the garbage gods. Everything from spoiled food to badly worn clothing was scattered along the sidewalk. Cigarette butts were the most common item in the mess, and, consequently, were the things considered as luxuries of the rich to almost all of the people living here.

Looming ominously in the distance was the formidable structure that was Buffy's apartment complex. Its walls were stained smoke gray; however, a splash of brick red glimmered magically under the glare of a dwindling sun, conveying a message of hope to all its onlookers and, in doing so, deceiving them into believing they could escape the tortuous life contained within the prison walls. Huge cracks in the mortar wove their way up the building's façade, noticeable as tiny snakes of black between the bricks even from a distance. Vines of crumbling, dead ivies held—or so it appeared—the building together, practically keeping its sides from exploding outward. The windows were ashen in appearance, dirtied by a century of heavy industrial pollution and human abuse. Tattered curtains rustled visibly inside almost every apartment because the seals on the windows were so old that the wind just bullied its way through them, freezing each apartment's inhabitants. 

The closer Buffy got to the lurking monster, the further into her depression she sank. 

When she was but a few short steps from the glass door, Buffy halted abruptly, frozen by a fear hardly unknown to her. This was the fear of entering this place and not ever being able to turn back and leave it again… the fear of being swallowed up by the beast. Her delicate hand remained inches from the tarnished brass doorknob, wavering as a feather in the frosty breezes. The wintry air dusted her hand with sleet, which quickly melted into the oblivion from whence it came. The cold worked its way up through her veins, icing their walls and freezing her blood. Still she could not bring herself to open the simple glass door. Her fingers trembled along with the rest of her body as each new gust battered Buffy's slender silhouette. She looked around warily. 

It was so hard for Buffy to enter 754 Ganesh Street, Apartment 44, knowing that from then on this was all she would probably ever know—poverty, emptiness, a mediocre life. The blonde wondered how drastically her future would have been altered had she remained back west with her family and friends. How much brighter would it have been? What would she be doing right now instead of shivering in the biting wind? So many questions, all completely rhetorical. If she could only go back…

No, not any more. Any chances she had for going back were wiped out four years ago. Now it was too late; the damage was done. No one would want to see her face in Sunnydale ever again—they'd be too disgusted with her. Buffy left in a time of great hardships for everyone in the Scooby Gang. She'd been weak, and instead of standing up to her fears and confronting them, she ran. Ran as far away as she could get with the money she'd had! And now she was here and thinking about going back. Stupid woman!

Eventually Buffy's hand fell reluctantly upon the knob and she twisted it harshly, her eyes closing almost painfully as she pulled open the trembling door. It squeaked noisily as it swung outward, its cries the same as Buffy's when she cried. The slayer tried to slip in as quickly as she could in an attempt to get it over with before she would freeze… or have second thoughts, whichever came first.

In the barren lobby of the foreboding structure, Buffy stood tensely for a few moments in an attempt to gather her bearings. How often she had stood here, amongst the beaten sofa, weathered chairs and shoddy, 1000-year-old lamps, doing this exact same thing? It was completely ridiculous that a slayer of her caliber should do this every time she arrived at Hornwaggler Apartments, but Buffy couldn't help it. The musty, dank room was littered with wrappers and cigarette butts, junk and junkies. One other door graced the lobby, and that was the door leading to Mr. Hornwaggler's own well-furnished apartment—the only aesthetically pleasing one in the entire building. 

This was the start of Buffy's fifth year in the Big Apple, and, as she had observed, the first weeks of each new year here were always the toughest for her to become accustomed to. Making matters even worse was the simple fact that about this time every year—when it grew colder and darker earlier—Buffy felt ennui and alone. The thought of warmer weather in Sunnydale, where she could no longer go, riddled with her friends didn't help soothe her much either.

Before anymore time elapsed, her muscles relaxed and her breathing became steady once more—much opposed to the previous scene outside—and Buffy felt infinitely better because she knew she had overcome a great obstacle (although she felt that way every time she did this). With each new day that passed, the slayer felt freer of her past than she ever had, but she expected this with the progression of time. However, Buffy predicted, and wisely, that it would truly take forever for her to get entirely over Sunnydale. Still, she felt as though she was moving on with her new life, and Buffy was as determined as ever to do so. But so often in these wintry months, she found herself slipping into these unwelcome lapses of memory, feeling alone and powerless with not a soul to turn to for help. These were the kind of bizarre demons that now plagued the Queen of the Night.

The surprising rustle of her winter garb echoed emptily throughout the claustrophobic stairwell of the five-story complex. As Buffy made the perilous journey up the four flights of stairs amongst the shadows of the twilight, she sifted through the clouds and smog to her room, the whimpering of her winter clothing trailing her. It was a doleful sound, soft and tragic to the ear, yet it cut like a razor into the soul. The loss of innocence. The perversion of youth. The deletion of hope. That's what this strikingly simple sound really consisted of, not the simple swishing of clothing, but of pain and suffering and quiet anguish.

Up. Up each treacherously narrow step. Always up. Up high into the sky to become one with the clouds. Or so it seemed to Buffy. She made this trip so many times that it had become part of her daily routine, but strangely it was the one thing Buffy always noticed most of all. No, never the trip down; or the walk to work; or work itself; nor the phantasmagoric visages of her customers; not the walk home either. Simply the climbs up the stairs. Naturally, the always curious slayer began a serious introspection (per usual in her dreary new life) as to why this was, all the while dragging her hand languidly along the banister.

Second floor.

Buffy thought back five years ago, back to when she was seated on a bus without an inkling as to where it was headed, nor did she care. The veils of fog that clouded these memories wafted away like a stage curtain to reveal a tragic scene behind them. A mere slip of a girl, but 17 years old, slouched in her terribly uncomfortable bus seat, fidgeting restlessly and twiddling her thumbs. It had been a long while since the last stop in Las Vegas and she was getting antsy for a stop. Obviously bored with the scenery outside and tired of waiting, Buffy decided to read a book she had managed to smuggle from the library in Sunnydale High School. A trashy romance novel. No one knew she read them, not even her mother, and she tried hard to keep it that way. Of course, now it didn't matter where she read them or when she read them; now that she had run away, no one would ever care again. 

The bus came to its last stop on its trip, and those who had not departed at the other stops filed out together, each and everyone of them moaning and groaning about how his or her ass hurt—all except Buffy. She didn't feel like talking. Nowadays she never did, for she had nothing to talk about and no one to share it with anyway. Besides, she didn't even know where she was. As she walked into the depot with the rest of the crowd, the slayer noticed the merry greeting sign overhead that read: "Welcome to Salt Lake City! Where dreams become reality!" Yeah, right. It was at that exact moment that Buffy realized this was the saddest day of her life. Nothing compared to the tremendous losses she had suffered, to the incredible amount of unending emotional torment and pain she experienced, to the eternal darkness she saw encompassing her. And even though Buffy knew that no matter where she went those memories would haunt her, she took her few remaining dollars and purchased yet another Greyhound bus ticket, this time with the full intention of knowing where she was going. Buffy bought a one-way ticket to New York City. Hopefully there she could wrangle out a living for herself, one she might actually accept living.

The slayer knew full well that her past was inescapable, but at that low point in her life, she viewed the fantastic city as a city where she could start anew, with a clean slate—as they often say—and best of all, no one would know who she was. In her mind she could see the glittering lights of Time Square, the bedazzling diamonds in the windows of Tiffany's, the wonderment of the Statue of Liberty, and the sheer immensity of the Empire State Building. Buffy imagined herself standing amidst the throng of sightseers, buying hot dogs from one of those mobile concession stands placed strategically along the sidewalk and shopping on Fifth Avenue (doing all the things a tourist would do). 

If she had only known what she knew now...

Third floor.

Buffy had nothing when she arrived; merely a suitcase full of clothes and other supplies, $45 to her name and a whole head full of silly hopes and fantasies of what she would find. But all thoughts stopped when she glanced through the front window of the bus, at the city off in the distance, literally glowing in the dark like a glimmering jewel dancing with a million reds, whites and golds in the velvet cape of night. The flashing lights above the city winked in unison at Buffy as if enticing her in with some sort of spell, which some people would testify it had the capabilities of doing. The lure of New York was just too much for the slayer to resist, and soon she found herself totally enraptured. The high, full moon masked by veils of fog, which did little to dull the ethereal lunar light, let loose a milky white glow down upon the valley of the stone and steel giants, making the place even more aestically pleasing to Buffy than before. Buffy could smell the city, the actual city, for it had a million distinct smells that no other in the world possessed, and when they mashed together they created a symphony for the senses.

Closer and closer she came to the inner city. With each turn of the bus' wheels, her excitement grew tenfold and the anticipation was almost unbearable.

The thunder of the tires beating against the steel grating on the Brooklyn Bridge as it crossed into Brooklyn for its final stop filled Buffy's ears with a strange whirring sound. She'd been over so many bridges on her cross-country adventure, but none had sounded so new, so wonderful, so different, yet entirely the same as all the others. There was something special about this particular bridge, something totally unique to it that made it stand out against all the others. Whether it was because she believed she was moving on to a new life, or whether it was just the aura of exhilaration surrounding the swarming anthill, it meant nothing to Buffy either way—it was just an outlet for the pain.

Fourth floor.

Her first few weeks were spent in a YMCA. They were hellish weeks meant to test her capabilities of handling fast-paced city life. She passed, though hardly with flying colors. Quite a few times she broke down completely and ended up crying herself to sleep on her sagging bunk bed. But soon she felt the itch to escape the shelter, and Buffy knew then that she had to get her own apartment. Whilst she applied for job after job under the alias of Anne Winters (she wanted something easy to remember, so Buffy took her middle name and simply choose another season for her last name), Buffy did any odd jobs she could to earn fast cash. After weeks of waiting for any replies to her job inquiries, she soon found that nowhere would hire her. But Buffy never gave up, which was ironic because that's exactly what she had done a couple of months ago. She applied for even more jobs, still hoping that one might just respond.

Finally, Anne's patience and perseverance proved well in the end, and she received a job as a waitress at Skippy's Diner. Although a neophyte when it came to waitressing, Anne managed to do extremely well. The facts that she was a sedulous worker and seemingly infallible when it came to working elicited a good response from Skippy. In need of cash and eager to do some real labor, Anne accepted immediately without even caring to ask how much pay was.

Though her first day was a disaster—she spilled her trays four or five times on the patrons and frequently delivered the wrong food and took the wrong order—Skippy was convinced Anne would be a success, and within the span of a week she had proven him right. Her handle on her job became more controlled with every order she took, and within no time she was a professional. 

Although Skippy's Diner was a lower-class establishment, the place remained popular and made very good business. Anne's wages were okay, too, and the tips normally weren't bad either. Plus, she was only a few blocks from her residence in the middle-class area of town, though her apartment was far from average. Still, Anne was relatively happy with the life she was leading in New York. She had money, her own place, even a close friend (Skippy). 

But merely three years later the diner was bought out from under its own feet by a bevy of wealthy women hoping only to increase that wealth and gain power. When they took over, Anne found them to be contemptible to all of the employees, herself in particular. They were snobby and pretentious, always thinking they were so very cosmopolitan and educated compared to the lowly working class. Naturally, they needed to show off their riches to the world, especially these middle-class types, so they remodeled the quaint little diner in their ostentatious image, turning it into a fancy French restaurant entitled the Palace of Versailles. 

Somehow Anne managed to get hired at the Palace, although she didn't really want to work there. But because it was the only place that would hire her, she took the position gladly. Wages were better here as were the tips, but the quality of the people working in management left a lot to be desired. Anne missed Skippy as well as her fellow coworkers. Dealing with the five witches everyday for two years certainly had been trying on her nerves and patience, but she'd survived. She was a slayer after all. But now a dread filled her every time she put on her uniform. It was the same kind of dread that she felt at the entrance to Hornwaggler Apartments: the gnawing, painful fear that this was where she would always be stuck.

Apartment 44.

Though now thoroughly disheartened by the recent, unwelcome backlash of memories, Anne thumbed numbly through her coat pocket for her room key. In the blackness of the hallway she could hardly read the severely tarnished brass numbers on her door let alone find her key. She searched for a while longer, and upon locating it, she then proceeded into the shadowed apartment. A single window cut in the kitchen wall provided the only light in the whole place, and even then that light was a dim twinkling from the city street lamps glowing brilliantly below. The blonde flicked on the light switch, forcing most of the eerie, inky ghosts to disintegrate quickly as light disseminated about the cramped living space.

It was times like this, when she could actually see her place, that she hated it. Anne glanced contemptuously around the room, scrutinizing it with her falcon's eyes. A sofa, a battered wooden coffee table, a worn and badly frayed Oriental carpet and a small table lamp were all that graced the tiny living room. The clattering and rattling of the slayer's refrigerator sounded loudly inside her little abode, mixing with the heater whirring along the baseboard. The smell of dust and dirt befouled her nostrils and left a revolting taste in her mouth. Yessiree, Anne despised Apartment 44. 

Blustery winds of change roared outside the building, and because the superintendent was too cheap to seal around the windows properly, the chilly air seeped into the house, forcing the blonde to rub her still coat-covered arms to keep warm. With her mind now focused on the window, Anne stared beyond the thin plates of glass, past the over-crowded row houses, over the countless bodegas and bars and right at the Brooklyn Bridge. From here it looked like nothing more than a flimsy toothpick structure a child would create in first grade. The marvelousness Anne had once seen in it failed to make itself known to her again because she had stared at it every night consistently for almost five full years, so it had eventually lost its luster and magnificence. Its appeal had faded just like everything else in both Buffy's and Anne's existences had. Faded and died. Crushed ruthlessly by forces still unknown to her.

Finally, Anne shrugged off her jacket and hung it carelessly on the back of the sofa. As she headed into her poor excuse for a kitchen, the slayer prayed that she would find something hot to drink that would assuage the chills running rampant inside her, the blood-curdling chills that originate not from outside the person, but from within the person.

Searching through her barren cabinets like Old Mother Hubbard, the slayer found one packet of instant hot chocolate and a tin of Maxwell House Coffee with a single scoop left in it. It was a tough decision, but Anne decided to save the coffee for the morning and drink the chocolate now. Anyway, it was getting late, and she didn't want to be up at ungodly hours looking around a place she couldn't stand to look at for more than a minute. Besides, what would wake her up in the morning?

She turned on the burner and went to remove the kettle from its cubbyhole in the wall. When she did, Anne remarked to herself how new and beautiful it was, shining and clean, quite different from everything else she owned. The glittering copper metal sparkled under the simple hanging bulb in the kitchen ceiling. The fancy gooseneck spout, delicately wrought handle and the overall integrity of the kettle made it the most valuable item in Ms. Winter's whole household. It was a treasure to both look at and hold. It even made the dim, tiny room seem a little brighter and cheerier.

Memories of purchasing the remarkable object gradually poured into Anne's head as she filled it with water and rested it on her ancient gas stove. Ah, the little antiques shop in an alley off of Broadway. It was a queer place packed full of strange and exotic things to both bedazzle and mystify. She remembered spotting the kettle and instantly wanting to buy it, but Anne harbored a fear of spending her little surplus of money so capriciously. However, in the end she gave in to her id. It had been a good decision.

While she waited for the water to boil, Anne relaxed on the weathered couch, kicking off her heeled shoes and melting into the tattered fabric of the cushions. Her eyes closed—she was so exhausted from work—and she slipped into a light, but troubled sleep.

Suddenly, Buffy heard the blast of a train whistle in her sensitive ears, and she felt the ground moving underneath her feet. Her whole body swayed with the motions of the train, and she was rocked into a trance. Looking out the window of the speeding train with a newfound curiosity, Buffy watched the landscape breeze by her, the mountains and the valleys forming into a single pulsating mass of earth and undulating under the heat of the burning-red, summer sun.

As the train gradually slowed to a stop, Buffy began to recognize her surroundings. The station up ahead; the houses in the distant; the school on the minute hillside. The train had reached its final destination of Sunnydale, California. As she exited the passenger car, the slayer glanced up at the sun shining so brilliantly down from the silver and blue empyrean, and she thought to herself, "This is going to be a wonderful day!" There was not a threatening cloud in sight, only large, fluffy white ones floating lethargically across the heavens.

Buffy had been dreaming of this moment for months: the chance to go home and see her friends and her mother; to reunite with the Scooby Gang and make peace; to conquer Angel's spirit once and for all. She had hoped for a day like today, but hadn't really expected it. The slayer only prayed it was a good omen for the storm that was about to arise.

It had been a little over four months since she had left her hometown in the midst of the terrible tragedy of losing her Angel and moved to New York City. In that short span of time she had managed to wrangle a decent job and a livable apartment—both of which Buffy had abandoned when she'd returned home. But it was just as well because she was never going back there; Sunnydale was her home again. Finally. Her intense curiosity about what the gang had been up to while she had been away had plagued Buffy for months on end, and she could hardly wait to share her own adventures with them. 

Because the kids were back in school, Buffy had the whole early afternoon to herself. Normally, being the impulsive woman that she was, the slayer would have bounded to the school to see them, but as far as she knew, she was still wanted for Kendra's murder. Not a mess she would want to immerse herself into as of yet. So, Buffy spent the day bumming around town, revisiting old haunts, shopping in her favorite stores, and just sort of reminiscing.

Then, when nightfall set in like it always did in Sunnydale—so fast it made your head spin—Buffy started her search for Xander, Giles, Oz and Willow. First, she checked all of their houses one by one, inspecting every one for any signs of life within it. Finding every one empty, Buffy cruised over to the Bronze, Sunnydale's only good hangout. When she ventured in she found that, although it was packed to its maximum, none of the Scooby Gang was to be found there.

Finally, Buffy arrived at the cemetery. Once she remembered that Sunnydale no longer had a slayer in operation, she realized that quite possibly that they would be there, patrolling for her. As it soon turned out, she was right.

The moon glimmered amongst the stars and shone down on four black figures, lighting certain features on each one of their faces. Sauntering coolly through the headstones was Xander accompanied by Willow and Giles. The fiery tinge of dyed red hair revealed to Buffy that Oz was there, too, hanging behind to cover their backs. It was quite evident by their rigid structure that the group had worked out a very precise system for patrolling for and staking vampires. Stealthily, the clan slipped through the graves, their light breathing camouflaging with the gentle, silent breezes. 

Abruptly, the silence was shattered when a particularly vicious-looking vamp exploded from his resting-place and roared with incredible rancor toward her friends. It grinned evilly and wiggled its claws contemptuously before their eyes. 

Immediately the four went into their assigned battle positions—legs spread shoulder-width apart, eyes narrowed, muscles tense, brains alert—and readied their wooden stakes. While Giles and Willow attempted to distract it with taunting, Oz and Xander inched their way around the freshly opened grave and surrounded the creature of the night as the watcher prepared to launch the killing blow. However, Xander attacked it from behind, sweeping the demon's feet out from underneath it. But, expecting something as rash as this, the vampire caught itself before it fell and managed to swing a fist at the young slayerette, scoring a direct hit to the face. Xander carelessly dropped his stake as he grabbed for his smashed nose, which oozed a sanguine liquid. "You sonova…" the boy snorted before Willow interjected.

"Xander! Duck!"

And within a moment it was all over. Giles charged the vamp as it stood laughing at the bleeding boy, jamming his stake into its chest and watching it burst into a cloud of dust. Xander sniffled wetly as some dust tickled his bloody nose, and everyone ran to his side. Even Buffy. She stepped out from behind her tombstone to go see him and congratulate them all on their terrific fight, but quickly stopped when they started to talk.

"It always looked so much easier when Buffy did it," Willow commented, handing Xander a tissue.

A smile formed on Buffy's lips.

"Can we please not bring _her_ up?" requested Xander miserably.

Now she frowned.

"You all know how the topic of Buffy Summers affects me. So let's please drop the subject. Besides, I think we're doing just fine on our own. We've almost got this routine figured out perfectly. We don't need her, and we never did."

Giles looked disapprovingly at the boy. "Oh, come off it, Xander. Had Buffy never come to Sunnydale, we'd all probably be dead by now. You know we need her; we always have, and we eternally will—especially you."

"You don't know what you're talking about, Giles."

"Oh, I think I do," the Brit said smartly. 

"Even if that's true—and I'm not saying it is—she obviously didn't need any of us. Didn't need me…"

"Xander," Willow whispered.

"The truth hurts, doesn't it, Will? That's something I've learned firsthand. But you can teach yourself to live with the pain, as I did. It always helps if you stop seeing the person as a goddess so high above you and think of her as just another face in the crowd, featureless and plain. A few bad words help, too." He smiled at his lame joke and blotted his nose with the Kleenex. 

Tears had formed in Buffy's eyes and stained her beautiful face. Each word that Xander spoke lashed her like a cat-o-nine-tails. She had never known that was how he saw her. Not anymore though. So far as she could tell, Xander hated her for leaving, as he rightly should, she knew. Why had she come back at all? They obviously didn't need her or want her, for that matter. They could fight the vampires and monsters on their own; no need for a slayer that would only annoy them. God! All that money to come here, the loss of her job and maybe even her apartment, for what? For nothing but a handful of hurt feelings. She was just going to have to return to Brooklyn anyway.

From the shadows, the slayer watched the gloomy precession leave the cemetery and lose its way in the inky black folds of night. This would be the last time she saw any of them ever again, for she decided this would be the last time ever returned to Sunnydale or California. It was officially part of her past.

The following morning, Buffy clambered onto the first train leaving for New York. A final mournful whistle initiated from the train as it chugged off slowly across the country. The world blurred around her yet again, and the next thing she knew the train was like coyote baying at the moon as it pulled up to a station in the Big Apple.

Anne awoke to the high whine of the steaming kettle on the stove. She was startled momentarily, thinking she was still on the train four years ago, but regained her senses when she recognized the sound. It took all of her remaining strength to heft herself up off of the couch and drag herself into the kitchen.

Since her mind was still preoccupied with the recent flood of long-forgotten memories, Anne wasn't paying close enough attention when she was pouring the boiling water, and, consequently, the blonde scalded her finger. As pain inched up her arm, the slayer dropped the coffeepot—whose cataclysmic boom practically rocked the whole flimsy building—and sizzling water spilled all over the floor. "Damn!" Anne cursed loudly as the warm liquid permeated her thin cloth slippers.

While Anne was running her finger under the faucet, she commented to herself, "At least I have enough water to make my hot chocolate. I guess every cloud does have a silver lining."

Outside in the cold, unfriendly world, dirtied ashes rained down from the heavens—tiny twirling ballerinas with grace and poise. In the city's ever-glowing golden haze, they winked at Anne with their intricate, lacy wings as they fluttered about aimlessly on the breezes that chilled the rest of New York as well as the Winter's household.

White lights blinked out all over the city as hard-working men and women eagerly went home to their expecting families. It was at this time of night that Anne always did her most serious thinking. Everyday when she came home from work, Anne wished she had someone there to greet her—a mother, a father, someone… anyone. She was so lonely in Brooklyn. It never failed to seem totally ironic to her that she could be in a city packed with over a million residents, yet she felt hopelessly alone. These people were just strangers though, not friends; hardly any of them were even acquaintances. And Anne couldn't help but notice the knowing look in these people's criticizing eyes when they passed her—like they all knew about her past and the way she had treated her friends. Their hard expressions gave her the sensation that they could listen to her thoughts and know her most private feelings with just one simple glance. They perpetually wore scowls that appeared to be etched into their stony, otherwise featureless faces, which said to Anne that they wanted nothing more to do with her. So the slayer remained on the outside looking in, like in Sunnydale. At least back west she'd had a few friends whom understood her. But no more.

Through the abrupt hallway and into her cramped bedroom, Anne traveled with her cocoa, treading lightly, for her shoes were sopping wet and her feet ached from standing on them for a straight eight-hour shift. She sat wearily down on her jerrybuilt bed and inhaled heavily, smelling the rich aroma of chocolate drifting through the stiflingly thick air of the room. She glanced around and remarked to herself how strange it was that everything else she owned in the world was basically junk; nothing was expensive here except for her kettle and her hot chocolate. Hot chocolate was the one thing she was never, ever cheap about; it was the best, or none at all. 

Further proving that point was the television that sat across from the bed on a tiny, wooden table. It was black-and-white and certainly nothing special. The screen was severely scratched and dusty; the top was stained a hideous color from the continuous spillage of drinks; the faux cherry wood sides were marred with claw marks; and two knobs were missing from the front panel. Still, with her current lifestyle, it was all Anne could manage to afford, and for the meantime, it was her only window to the world (aside from her clock radio). Besides, she never had much time for TV anyway. She flipped aimlessly through the stations—what few of them she had—and upon finding nothing particular that piqued her interest, she turned off the television.

Anne slipped out of her uniform—a white blouse, black skirt and stockings—and into her baby blue nightgown. She switched off her bedside lamp, letting the serene darkness that was her second home overtake her. The lullaby of the city soothed Anne's ragged nerves and rocked her mind into a calm state ready to accept a sleep that wouldn't normally come.

Eventually, the blessing of rest was bestowed upon her, and for a brief eight-hour period Anne escaped her nightmare job, hell apartment and the miserable day-to-day routine that was her life to dream of Sunnydale and her mom and friends waiting back there for her.


	2. Winter Again

Chapter Two—Winter Again ****

Chapter Two—Winter Again

Morning came as silently as night had, creeping quietly along the jagged horizon and slipping its sickeningly bright tentacles of colorful light around the monumental structures of stone and concrete growing from the ancient cement garden. The rhythmic hum of the twilight traffic buzzed throughout the household, rattling windows in their frames and rocking the remaining cocoa in its ceramic mug. Honking emanated from the streets encompassing Hornwaggler Apartments and rap music burst forth from several small cars beneath it. 

"Good morning, Brooklyn! The time is exactly 7:00 on this glorious—"

Anne's hand slammed violently down on the Snooze button of her simple alarm clock, and the blaring voice of Brooklyn's most widely hated and totally obnoxious DJ was abruptly cut from the air. The howling of the radio newsman clouded the slayer's mind, the infamous phrase "Good morning" resounding prominently against her skull walls. She felt her brain practically swimming in an ocean of just those two simple words, an ocean where it was drowning. At that point in her hectic day, Anne usually found that hackneyed expression to be quite the oxymoron. Every morning she spent in New York, she found to be as rotten as the eggs in her refrigerator. What was wrong with everyone here, aside from the obvious? _People_, the slayer decided, _should really quit saying that. It's not like anyone really believes it?_

With a sigh and a soft thud, Anne swung her feet over the side of her bed and threw on her white cotton robe. Barefoot, she shuffled sleepily into the kitchen to the bright copper kettle waiting almost anxiously on the burner.

Moving just like a robot, the slayer stiffly pulled the coffee can down from the cabinet shelf and placed it on the rough kitchen counter. After tinkering around with the necessaries to make a cup of coffee, she tapped her foot impatiently on the linoleum as she waited for the water to boil. 

Sometime during the night winter had stopped its bombardment on the city and the snowflakes had ceased to fall. Anne squinted through the grimy glass window and peered out at the morning Sunnyside sprawling before her. Tiny ants, black and writhing, scuttled hurriedly up and down the sidewalks on their ways to work. Beating mercilessly down upon them was the glorious, orange-red sun that to Anne reminded her of Oz's hair color. It smiled happily—or evilly, however one chose to view it—at the minute servants of repetition scurrying under its glare. Everyone down below surely thought of it as a wonderful sight, meaning the end of all his or her problems, but not Anne. No, when Anne looked at the fiery grin pasted on the creature's solar face, she saw it for what it was: a specious one. Looking at the concealing smile, the slayer felt it in her bones; this was going to be a day comparable to the one when she'd had when she first arrived in New York City.

The familiar whistle of the kettle drew Anne away from the window and to the stove with its siren call. More carefully than last night, she removed it and poured the steaming liquid into her mug without spilling one drop.

Feeling quite satisfied with herself, Anne lightly tapped the can as she tried to pour the powder into her cup. However, some puddles of water from the night before's fiasco were still hiding deceptively on the floor, anticipating the moment Anne would step on them (or at least that was how it seemed). Of course, a naked foot slides easily through water, as the slayer soon found out. Right as she was shaking the coffee sprinkles out of the can and into the mug, she went flying through the air, and arch of brown ashes sailing above the twisted airborne form. The sickening smack of a body on the ground thundered throughout the apartment and into the one underneath hers. The streams of gay morning sunshine filtered through the smoggy atmosphere of Brooklyn and lit the claustrophobic kitchen with their merry light. One beam shone down upon the grossly tangled body like a spotlight, illuminating just it. A few stray grains of coffee intermingled with the motes of dust, slipped between the rays of sun like water through a sieve and rained down upon Anne's exhausted, mangled form. 

"Curses," Anne grunted sourly at the sun and the water as she hefted herself to her feet, "no morning coffee." She wasn't sure how she was going to make it through the rest of the day without anything to perk her up or, for that matter, even open her sleep-sealed eyes. With a tortured moan followed up by an even more painful groan, Anne grabbed the counter, heaving herself into the air with the little slayer strength she had left in her.

Shuffling like a helpless septuagenarian, Anne reentered her only-clean-because-it-has-nothing-to-dirty-it bedroom, changed out of her bedclothes and into her work uniform before leaving her house to go to the Palace of Versailles. Hurriedly, the blonde combed her hair and applied her makeup as she got dressed. No time anymore. Never any time.

Casting one last sidelong glance at the kitchen, she decided it best to clean up the mess later, when she had the free time (like she ever did). Now, Anne had to get to work before she was late and Caroline, Michelle, Susan and Diana—her bosses-had her head on one of their many real silver platters. Michelle would probably take to doing it herself—stupid, arrogant bitch.

The snapping tails of her long, woolen jacket trailed behind her as she escaped the all-too-tiny cubbyhole for the much-too-big world. The instant she left the apartment behind, Anne felt as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders; this was the way she always felt when she left. Why, she was never quite sure, but she hypothesized it was because her place was so small and dreary, and it limited her world to a living room, kitchen, bathroom and bedroom. Like back in her slayer days, Anne had always needed an area to roam. Apartment 44 would never be able to give her that. Nowhere but Sunnydale ever would because nowhere else was home.

Down the stairs and out the doors of the indigent establishment, Anne traveled as quickly as possible, in a great rush to get to work on time for once. Anne knew that if she didn't punch in at 8:30 today, there was quite a good chance that she wouldn't be seeing the inside of the Palace for a _very _long time.

The steady click-clack of her ebony, heeled shoes on the pavement melded perfectly into the symphony of buzzing traffic, chattering prostitutes and crinkling shopping bags bursting with at the seems with merchandise. However, the rhythmic sounds were soon replaced by the revolting squish of chewed gum being crushed underfoot. Anne frowned disgustedly as she lifted her foot, which remained attached to the sidewalk by an umbilical cord of blue chewing gum. "Great," she uttered sardonically as she gingerly severed the string of gum with her fingertip. "I knew this was going to be one of those rotten days that have no end."

While she was hobbling helplessly along, attempting to shake the rest of the blue goo off of the sole of her pumps, Anne heard another abhorrent thunk as well as felt it. Then, all she heard was the sound crunching paper in the air.

"Noo!" a mature male voice cried out as the storm of snow-white papers she had heard rained down upon Anne and the mystery man.

__

Oh no… Anne thought with a mental sigh_, what trouble have I caused now, and upon whom did I shower my bad luck?_ She craned her head enough to see the figure of a man stretched out on the sidewalk, with his arms reaching desperately for the papers flapping aimlessly by in the wind. A terrified look filled his frightening eyes, staining the dark brown irises with the gray of fear.

When all of the papers had landed, the dressed-to-impress gentleman inched along the ground, hurrying frantically to collect all of them before they were ruined by water or snow, but at the same time, he tried his very hardest not to soil his nicely pressed suit. His strong hands snatched the at the white sheets like a cobra, with just as much venom in their tips, Anne was sure, as the snake.

"I'm so sorry, sir! Here, let me help you. "Anne extended a hand toward him, but he smacked it away as vehemently as he could manage without losing track of the task ahead of him.

"No thanks, lady. You've done enough already." She heard the poison clearly evident in his voice and winced visibly at the sound of the word thanks.

"Hey, I was just trying to help," Anne innocently informed him as she peeled a few papers from the sticky sidewalk.

"You've done so much _helping_ for today I'll have enough of it to share with my friends. Save it for some other unknowing schmuck."

"You don't have to be so rude."

"I wouldn't have to be if you'da watched where you were going in the first place."

"Okay, fine. You wanna play the blame game? Well here goes nothing. Maybe _you_ should have watched out for _me_, so you could have moved out of the way in time! It's not all my fault, mister!" she cried, slamming a paper into his open briefcase.

"Don't get haughty with me, lady. You're gonna make me late for my interview now. Does that give you a happy?"

Anne looked at him quizzically before responding, on the verge of something important. "Well, you are gonna make me late for my job!"

Out of the corner of his eyes, the supercilious man noticed the last escaped paper teetering dangerously above a puddle of gross smelling and looking street sludge. The wind laughed hysterically above them as it screamed through the alleys and peaks of tall buildings. A sudden realization of what was going to happen appeared on the man's face and his eyes opened as wide as they could. "Grab that paper! Hurry!"

"Why should I?" Anne asked vindictively.

"Lady, hurry, before it falls in! It's very important!"

"All right, all right!" the slayer said, exasperated. When she reached for the paper, a sudden breeze fluttered through the chill air and sent the thing sailing into the blackened pool of water and slime. The man let out a pitiful whine as the face of the paper landed on the surface of the not-so-limpid puddle. "Oh please tell me that's not for—"

"Michael Sanderson and Associates?"

Another whimper. "Why? Why God have you cursed me so?"

"Want this back, uh, Hogan Vlinters?" Anne asked facetiously as she handed the dripping wet form to the crying man.

"Thanks," Hogan said sarcastically, a touch of annoyance evident in his tear-permeated voice. He grabbed the resume roughly from Anne's hands and straightened his crooked back. It was at that point Anne realized just how hulking yet urbane the man looked.

Hogan wasn't much taller than she was; however, he was very muscular, though the excellently tailored suit did well to conceal much of the roughness of the actual muscles. His hands were huge and callused, most likely from continuously working out. His hair was a rich, chestnut brown with an inner shine to it as was his immaculately trimmed goatee, and they both matched his sable eyes perfectly. Specks of salt from the roadway dotted Hogan's dark, navy blue suit like a million-minute stars, but they detracted little away from the overall look. Although his handsome face projected an angry countenance then, underneath the stony appearance, Anne saw a man plagued by demons, both emotional and real ones—like the kind she used to fight when she was Buffy Summers.

Stuffing his papers into a manila folder then into a briefcase, Hogan left, sulking all the while and never bothering to say goodbye.

"Cute, but a jerk," Anne thought inwardly. She straightened her short black skirt and adjusted her heavy winter jacket on her shoulders, resuming her speedwalk to the restaurant; the only change was the fact that she nearly doubled her speed.

Past the row house, over the dozens of crosswalks, through the countless groups of people, Anne made her slow but steady way to the Palace of Versailles. Actually, she was cruising as fast as her legs could carry her, but it seemed to take and eternity to make it through the Brooklyn rush hour of pedestrians.

Towering over the fantastically clean-swept sidewalk was an amazing three-story work of modern architecture. The entire place was constructed of huge, spotless windows with an intricate criss-cross pattern between the plates of glass. There were two floors evident within the building: the lower level serving as a normal restaurant and the upper level servicing luncheons and banquets. Tables galore speckled the dining halls and fluttering amongst them were dozens of waiters and waitresses gearing up for the lunchtime rush, even at 8:30 in the morning. A fancy, black cloth overhang graced the entranceway, and above that glowed a brilliant white sign that proclaimed the restaurant's name to all, like a court herald. To top the whole sundae off, a row of topiary creations trimmed in the shape of two lions and four perfectly conical bushes, lined the carpeted walkway to the crystal doors. The air to the place was that of sophistication and arrogance.

Upon entering the Palace, Anne mingled with her fellow coworkers for but a moment—blending into the swarming black-and-white mass of people who all looked identical to her—before going to punch in… late… again.

Through the kitchen doors and to the back hallway that led to a hidden alleyway went Anne Winters at lightning speed. On her way back she ran into her arch nemesis Michelle Greyborne, one of the four main owners of the Palace and also the one the slayer hated most. God, sometimes she wished Michelle would just turn into a damn vampire so she would have an excuse to stake her! "Late again I see, Ms. Winters," Michelle oozed almost merrily. 

"Mrs. Greyborne, I'm so sorry. It's just that I've been having one of the worst days of my life. This morning when I—"

"Oh, save it for somebody who gives a flying hoot what happened to a piece of miserable dirt like you! You're late; that's all I care about. I'm sure my sisters would love for me to regal them on how Ms. Anne Winters was late for work for about the sixth time this week, don't you?"

"You snake!" Anne thought angrily. Continuing aloud: "Well, no, but-"

"No, they wouldn't, but I think I'm going to go ahead and tell them anyway."

Anne sighed heavily. "You are?"

"Yes, I am. Once they hear what I have to say about you, I'm confident we won't have to put up with the likes of you too much longer."

"I think you made it perfectly clear how you feel about me, Mrs. Greyborne."

"Thank Heaven above! I thought I'd have to hit you over the head with a frying pan before you would figure it out. Now, get to work, and do a good job for once. It may be your last day here, and if it is, you'd better make sure that we here at the Palace of Versailles have _something_ decent to tell your next employer, whoever the poor fool may be."

"Thanks for the harangue, Michelle," Anne replied thickly as she stormed out of the kitchen and back into the dining hall, leaving an irate boss in her disastrous wake.

To burn off the rage steadily building within her, the slayer slammed each salt and pepper shaker set violently down on the tables she was ordered to set. The crystal clattered symphonically along with the tinkle of silverware being laid out and the romantic chime of glass chalices stuffed with a black napkins. The smattering of dozens of different kitchen noises rose high above the city orchestra outside the transparent walls. The music was almost coherent to Anne as she listened carefully.

After a few long hours had inched their way past, the Palace of Versailles opened for business. Their usual lunch time rush ended as quickly as it had arrived, and what was even worse was their usual lunch time crowd had shown up. This really irked the blonde because she hated redundancy. And naturally, in such a boring crowd of snobbish men and women there was no opportunity for excitement. Several meetings had taken place in the meeting hall up the stairs, but it hardly made any difference to Anne because she was working the tables on the lower level.

What was worst of all though was that generally her customers were polite, debonair and aristocratic in nature – not to mention, they were normally excellent tippers. However, on this hell day to beat all hell days, it had to start out as nightmare, and as it progressed, Anne found herself getting lost further in the fabric of the elaborate dream. The tips were poor, the customers rude, and to top it all off – the cherry on it all – one of her customers just had to be, had to be, Mr. Hogan Vlinters.

"Could this day get any worse?" The moment the maxim had escaped Anne's rose red lips, she knew she had just jinxed herself for the entire rest of the day.

The waitress prayed hopefully that the man wouldn't remember whom she was or how they'd come to meet; naturally, her prayers went unanswered. Luckily, when she sauntered guiltily over to his table, Hogan was busy studying his menu and he didn't even bother to look up at his waitress. Anne cleared her dry throat. "Ah, good evening, sir. How are you doing today?" she asked nervously.

"Lousy, just lousy. Thanks for asking though. I think I'm ready to…" He paused briefly. "Wait a minute. I recognize that voice; you're the lady that ran into me this morning, the one who ruined my life!" Hogan's chocolate eyes darted from his menu to the beautiful blonde woman standing above him. She fidgeted under his gaze, unknowingly doodling scribbles on her pad of paper.

"I think you have me confused with someone else, sir. Until now I've never seen you before in my life," Anne suggested, desperately trying to convince him that it wasn't her (although it had been). "Maybe I simply resemble her; there are a lot of blonde women in New York." Boy, did she know that too well. Every other woman was Buffy Anne Summers.

"No, no. Don't try and fool me; I can't be fooled that easily." He looked her straight in the face as he spoke, trying to make her believe him, but Anne detected a trace of uncertainty in his voice and a backdrop of sadness in his eyes. "You _are_ her."

The waitress sighed heavily as she gave up her façade, knowing that Hogan was already sure she was the one who supposedly had ruined his life. "Look, sir," barely biting the word out, "I didn't do it on purpose, as I have said many times already. I even tried to help you, so don't say that I didn't. You are the one who ruined your own life, buddy!"

"Michael Sanderson was the last place in this entire goddam city that had the room to hire me, and I knew that full well. They told me to dress cleanly and be prepared to present a perfect resume and have a positive attitude. Thanks to your efforts, I had none of those when I went in. I never would do anything to jeopardize my chances there. The only reason I lost that job was because of a careless woman who wasn't watching where she was going, like she should have doing!"

"Like I said, I-"

"Since you decided to make my life hell, I think I'll return the favor."

"Oh no. What are you-"

Before she could do a thing, he had started. "Miss! May I please have a glass of water? Oh, and where are my breadsticks? Everyone else has breadsticks but me, why? Are you playing favorites? Is it because you don't like me? If it is I'm reporting you to the manager. You can't simply discriminate because you don't like someone!" Anne just stood there staring incredulously at the raving man, who was going on and on about the stupid breadsticks not being on his table already. "And where's my water? I've been waiting five minutes for that water and still you refuse to bring it! Why isn't it here either?" He paused to take a breath, and when Anne didn't move at all, he cried, "And what about my breadsticks?!"

"All right! I'm getting them! I'm getting them! Hold on!"

"Are you allowed to talk to all of your patrons this way? I don't think so! Keep this attitude up and you won't be receiving any tip from me!" He harrumphed loudly, then smacked Anne square on the ass the moment she turned away from him.

Outraged, she cried out, surprising everyone around her. Embarrassed and mad as hell, Anne stormed away absolutely furious at the obnoxious man. She prayed he wouldn't keep this up all night, but knowing what Hogan was like already and drawing on the memories of men from her past, she had a feeling he was going to be just as tenacious as Giles or Xander or Angel had been. Five minutes with Hogan and already she wanted to lock him in room with Michelle Greyborne and throw away the key. In the kitchen, the slayer picked up a basket of breadsticks and his damned glass of ice water.

Back at the table, Hogan frowned at her when she returned without wearing a smile on her cherubic face. Violently, Anne threw the oblong straw basket on the table and angrily placed the crystal cup of water before him. "Happy?" she hissed.

"Not really. What ever happened to the traditional service with a smile? Anyway, there's no lemon in my water and I'm sure I asked for it in there. Maybe you should write that down. By the time you get to the crate of lemon slices, you might forget it."

Anne was literally fuming. Taking the glass of water off of the table, she grudgingly apologized for the mistake even though they both knew he never ordered it with a slice of lemon in the first place; it was just to annoy her. And it had worked, too.

It went just like that the rest of the night; Anne ran back and forth between Hogan and the kitchen without stop, except for her other customers, for whom she felt terribly sorry. There was always something wrong with Hogan's food, or he didn't have enough to drink, or there wasn't enough sugar for his coffee or lemon for his water. Anne's other customers were hardly receiving any service because of him, and, fortunately for her, they knew it, so they couldn't rightly blame her. Every five minutes it was "Miss! Miss! I need…" and Hogan would prattle off what he wanted like a parrot would. From not enough croutons in his salad to not enough gravy for his mashed potatoes, anything was game.

Eventually Mr. Vlinters finished his dinner and paid his check dutifully. However, when it came to the matter of leaving a tip, Hogan placed a single penny on the tablecloth, face up, knowing full well that the simple fact that the tip was there but no good would _really_ get her.

Eight o'clock rolled around very slowly, but when it did finally arrive, the shock and wonderment that her horrible day was almost concluded knocked Anne for a loop.

Happily, she skipped back into the kitchen she had come to know so well this evening and wished goodnights to the chefs and other waiters and waitresses, her excitement to leave building in her all the while.

When she'd reached the ver y back of the restaurant, Anne encountered four statues, each figure's granite eyes fixed on her quivering form. The figures all had long, golden hair that fell to their middle backs, and all but the one in the center of their semi-circle had azure blue eyes; the one in the middle had emerald green, and she was also the one to speak. "We've heard some, well, let's just say less than appealing things about you, Miss Winters, this evening, some less than appealing things indeed. Needless to say, none of us were very pleased to hear them."

"From Miss Michelle, I presume?" 

The green-eyed beauty nodded, but waved a finger as if to add something else. "Not only from my sister Michelle, dear, but also from a very irate customer of yours. No, I take that back, a thoroughly dissatisfied customer."

"Hogan!" Anne gritted furiously.

"No, not from any Hogan, from a Roger. He complained that, and I quote, 'the service was poor; my needs were hardly met; the waitress's manners were horrendous, and she was as crass as woman I've ever met,'" Anne's manager informed her as she read what was on a comment card in her fragile hand. "Now, what do you have to say about this, Miss Winters?"

"I… I…" Anne stuttered, so choked with rage and embarrassment.

The blonde from the far right stepped forward, the Devil's smile playing wickedly across her face. "I told you we should have fired her months ago, Caroline. We would have been saved the humiliation."

"Quiet, Michelle.

"You do know what this means, don't you, Miss Winters?" Afraid that she did, Anne nodded yes. "I'll make this as short as I can; I'm not going to bother to sugar-coat a bitter pill. You're fired, Anne. As of tomorrow you are no longer to come to work at the Palace of Versailles. Tomorrow morning you are to return your uniform and nametag along with anything else of the Palace's that you have in your possession. Understand? Sometime next week we will contact you, and you can come and pick up your last check."

"Yes, Miss Caroline."

"Goodnight then," Caroline said as she turned her green gaze away from Anne and brushed passed the former waitress with her three sisters in tow. Michelle was last out, and before she left, she turned around and sneered viciously at her; she got her wish.

Silent tears dripped from her eyes as she donned her coat and slipped out the back door into the hidden alley behind the Palace. The air outside had grown ice cold in the last few hours since the sun had ducked under the horizon, and it instantly froze Anne to the core. Snow had once again begun to fall, crisp, wintry flakes dusting her blonde mass of hair and her slumped shoulders.

Suddenly it felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her and the sky above her began to fall, white pieces of plaster raining down on her. The world around her started to crumble before Anne's very eyes. Foundations cracked and streets buckled and the heavens overturned, and the whole time Anne stood in the alley waiting for the death had been prophesized since she left Sunnydale.

Someone masked by a veil of shadows coughed quietly, so quietly that had Anne not had her slayer wits still about her she might have never heard. Instantly, the old slayer urges and instincts returned after quite a period of dormancy, and so, following them, she spread her legs and readied her fist to deliver a punch to whomever was disturbing her.

"Relax, it's me."

The voice did nothing to sooth her frazzled nerves, for she recognized it all too well. When the man stepped out of the shadows, Buffy pulled her fist back, and when he moved into striking range, she whopped him square in the nose. The silhouette fell over backwards, clutching his face in pain and howling. "What'd you do that for?"

Buffy relaxed and became Anne again though her tone was similar to that of the nearly unflappable slayer when she dealt with vampires or demons. Only difference was, this wasn't a vampire or a demon, it was worse. "You succeeded. You ruined my life." 

"I what?"

"Your name isn't even Hogan."

"Of course it isn't," he informed, "it's Roger."

"I knew it!" Anne cried, punching Roger again when he tried to get back up. "Caroline – that bitch – told me some guy named Roger thought I was the worst waitress he'd ever had, so they fired me!"

"Damn, lady, you've got a punch like a pro boxer." Over in the corner there was a series of moans and groans followed by a few harsh sneezes. "Where'd you learn to hit like that?"

"I can't believe it! You don't even care that you've completely destroyed my life, jeopardized my entire future!"

"Why should I? You ruined mine." Roger spoke coldly, his voice barren of all feeling – no compassion, apathy, nothing. Anne wondered what could make a man so empty of emotion, so empty.

"Oh, like that was intentional. What you did to me was such a reprehensible act I don't have the right words that could describe the maliciousness of it properly. Perhaps if I hit you again I could show just how very mean it was."

"No! I got the point the first two times. Look, the reason I came," he started softly as he rose from the ground and out of the darkness, "was because I wanted to apologize for my behavior."

Searching wildly through the mask upon his face for his luscious brown eyes, Anne bellowed, "You're sorry? You're sorry! Roger, you are simply unbelievable! Un-freaking-believable! You ruined my life, mangled it and threw it away uncaringly as if it were a piece of garbage. Well, my life my have been in the toilet, but you damn well didn't need to flush it!" The slayer laughed bitterly into the biting cold as if challenging it. "What am I going to do for money? Where will I live when its time to collect the rent money and I have none? Just how am I going to get by? Tell me, cos I really would like to know!"

Roger stepped from the shadows finally, and when he did, Anne noticed his nose was leaking a steady stream of blood down onto his upper lip. An intense case of déjà vu filled her, and Buffy couldn't help but think she'd seen this all before. His full, soft lips parted as he spoke quietly, his words almost being carried off by the wind that ripped viciously through the alleyway. "I won't beg you for your forgiveness, but I will ask you for it. I'm not lying to you when I say I never meant for it to go this far. All I wanted was for you to get a scolding or maybe even a suspension from work, not fired. Perhaps if I talked to-"

"Just save it." 

Silence occurred between the pair as the night settled in further. They stood together, hushed and still, each contemplating the other. Anne had never seen a more attractive man, other than Angel, but she also had never met a more egotistical man, other than Angelus. She saw in Roger a strong coupling of them both, and it frightened her. This man was more Angel/Angelus than either Angel or Angelus had been. They had made it quite clear that they were two different people with the same face. Roger, on the other hand, was an inseparable mix of both. 

When nothing had been said after a long time, Roger turned to her and said, "I know that this is unorthodox, but I'm going to introduce myself properly. I'm Roger." He extended a hand, and when she didn't take it, he quickly shoved back into his coat pocket.

"You're getting me off track. I'm supposed to be moping about losing my crappy job, and you're supposed to bitching me out because I ruined your terrific future. Then we're supposed to start blaming each other for all of our problems and feeling sorry for ourselves."

The suave young man joined Anne's side while she leaned up against the back brick wall of the Palace and stared across the alley at the looming sandstone wall of the building next door. "We are a gloomy pair, aren't we?"

Anne nodded silently, her gaze never lifting from a crumpled beer can across from her. Suddenly she felt amazingly parched, as if she hadn't had a drink in days. "I know this is unorthodox," she said, mimicking his voice, "but are you thirsty?"

"Mouth couldn't be drier."

"Come on. I know a good place where we can get something to drink."

Roger and Anne turned and walked out of the blackened passageway, the only sound being the scrape of their shoes on the pavement. "By the way," she said, spinning around to face the man behind her, "my name's Anne."

Through the winding streets of Brooklyn and between fabulous skyscrapers that literally touched the heavens they went, in search of the bar about which Anne had spoken. Closer and closer the path led them to Anne's apartment. But as soon as the couple arrived at the intersection of Ganesh Way and another nondescript, not-found-on-any-map-but-the-most-detailed-one kind of street, Anne turned sharply left and ushered Roger deeper into the little sector of Sunnyside. 

At the heart of the community, she stopped abruptly betwixt an old pornography store and an extraordinarily sleazy strip club (even for here) simply called Eden. Directly between the two buildings and built into a solid, brown brick wall was a metal door of sorts painted a steel gray, although most of the paint had chipped away with the age and the weather, revealing the gooey black coat of stain underneath it. Printed in thick, red letters across the door were the words "Skippy's Bar", and beneath them was a corpulent, cherry arrow pointing upwards.

Without uttering a single word to her companion, Anne opened the door that hid a stone stairwell, and she climbed the first few steps with Roger lagging behind her. Anne quickly reached the top, eager to see Skippy and get a cold drink that might be paregoric for her badly frayed nerves.

At the top loomed another gray door with the original oil black color peeping through the thinning coat of paint, the sickeningly slick layer of black writhing suggestively under the glow of the halogen bulb dangling from a single wire in the ceiling. Even with the mass of ebony pulsating hatefully at her, Anne jerked open the door without a single moment of hesitation. It swung open to reveal a world totally different than the one outside the structure.

Inside stretched an extensive counter along the back wall, which was lined with hundreds of different types of alcohol and fountain drinks. They all shined hopefully under the dim fluorescent lights, the liquid inside swishing around and attempting to entice them to have a drink. A few rickety oak tables surrounded by four pine chairs each dotted the scuffed wooden floor, empty glasses, crushed beer cans and pretzel bits dotting the tabletops. Ashtrays overflowing with ashes and cigarette butts spewed their vile contents upon the counters and the floor as well. The smoke of the long burnt out cigarettes still lingered in the atmosphere of the stuffy bar, ghosts of a haunting past in the twisting, demonic light. Several regular, intoxicated patrons sat drunkenly on the barstools, chatting loudly through thick tongues pasted with alcohol to the roofs of their mouths. 

Behind the bar stood a stout man dressed in all denim, with the exception of his red and black shirt under his jean jacket. His round beer belly protruded over the waistline of his jeans, and his fleshy hands peeped out from under his jacket sleeves just barely, reminding Anne of ten pink worms. A salt-and-pepper beard grew from the man's face and inched down his chunky neck. Under his orange and brown hunting hat was a mat of black, long hair that was pulled loosely back into a ponytail, which rested on his broad shoulders. However, even through the shadow cast by the brim of his hat, the man's kind eyes sparkled in the dark, and the optimistic smile that he perpetually wore curled up his chubby face.

As Anne walked over to the counter and took a seat, the man's grin grew even wider – stretching from ear to ear – and his merry, Santa Claus-like eyes flamed up with happiness. "Annie!" the man bellowed with joy, throwing his arms out to her.

"Hey ya, Skippy," she said excitedly as she reached over the bar and embraced the large, round man. "How's life treating you?" In the midst of the welcoming hug, Anne forgot briefly the tragedy that had befallen her. She was so glad to see him.

Skippy's voice was as robust as he was, and it had a rich, happy tone to it, like he was very satisfied with the life he led. "Oh, justa fine, doll, justa fine. Da business is doinga swell's can be spected. How're ya doing yarself? How's dat Palace of Versails, or whatever it's called?"

"Look Skip, could ya fix us a coupla drinks, the stronger, the better. We've had a rough day."

"Dis guy here's awith ya?" Skippy asked, a bit perplexed, and Anne figured that was due to the fact that she'd never made a single friend in New York City aside from him. Anne nodded affirmatively while Skippy mixed and served the drinks without bothering to ask Roger if her had a preference. 

When the bartender presented the drinks before them, they greedily picked up their shot glasses, clinked them, and then downed the extra strong vodka shots mixed with cranberry juice they were served in the blink of an eye. For a moment they coughed on the bitter taste, but quickly recovered and asked for something even stronger. So while Skippy mixed their drinks, he engaged in a bit of chitchat with the would-be bodybuilder and his Annie. "Well, Annie, ain't ya gonna introduce me to yar friend?"

Quickly Anne licked her lips, savoring the last spare drops of the foul liquid that remained clinging to them. "Sorry about that. This is Roger Vlinters."  


"Uh, Anne-" Roger tried to interject hurriedly.

"Roger, this is Skippy Birbaum, my former manager and one of the sexiest men alive." She shot a silver smile at the bartender. "Oh, Skip, did I forget to mention that this is the man who ruined my life?"

"Yes, ya did."

"Yup, that's me, "Roger chimed in, "but I have to say in my defense that she ruined my life first. Did I mention that?"

"Na, ya didn't." Skippy watched Anne carefully as the former slayer's eyes darted around the pub from stoical face to stoical face, observing the dark clouds of drunkenness in their pupils. "What happened to ya today, Annie?" 

"As of 8:00 this evening, I no longer hold a position at the Palace of Versailles."

"Wha?"

"I was fired, Skip."

In his most concerned voice, he asked, "Ba why?"

He followed Anne's finger, which was pointing to her right, to the man on the barstool next to her. When his eyes had fallen upon Roger's glum figure, Skippy heard him speak. "You're looking at the reason why." Skippy gave him a puzzled look as Roger traced the rim of his glass with his finger. "Ask her."

With his eyes back on the blonde, the corpulent man started to ask her a question, but she cut him off even before he could form a syllable. "Just make the drinks. When I'm drunk enough, I'll tell you the whole sordid tale."

Two beers, a Hawaiian and a Screwdriver later…

Anne was so stinking drunk she was barely able to walk. She had trouble focusing on one thing and all her limbs tingled as the alcohol made its way through her veins. On the other hand, Roger had only indulged in two beers and the original shot of vodka. The alcohol had yet to bother him, considering he was huge and able to handle more of the poison.

The slayer wavered on her barstool for a moment, gathering her bearings as best she could, and then she proceeded to tell the other two a story from her youth. "Okay, so a coupla years back, I met this guy – if you wanta call 'im that – and we 'it it off real nice. I mean, I was practically fallin' all over da guy." Anne emphasized certain words in her tale with exaggerated movements such as has never before been seen and huge facial expressions that varied dramatically with the word meanings. "Well, there were problems, big problems, sudg as all relationsips 'ave. One of the biggest – though not _the_ biggest – was, well, 'e was older."

"An older man, huh? How much older?" Skip queried.

The slayer scratched her chin thoughtfully for a few seconds before answering. "Round 200, 250 years, I tink." Skippy laughed hardily at the obviously intoxicated girl while Roger just sat quietly on his stool, staring intently at her. "Waz so funny? Is're someone beind me?" Anne asked confusedly. Her head craned this way and that as she looked to see if there was anyone behind her.

"Na, love, na. Na one there; ya just said sompthin' funny."

"I did?" Skippy nodded. "Oh.

"Anyway, this guy was from Ireland or England or one of them foreign countries, buy 'e didn't 'ave no accent. Yeah, we 'ad some good times togeter, some very good times." Her alcohol-choked voice grew tender and weepy as Anne spoke of her lost love. "Almost all good up until I killed 'im. That did put a bit of a damper on our relationsip. 

"All right, Annie," Skippy interrupted, "that's enough outta ya. Na more drinks for ya tonight."

Tears formed in her clear eyes. "I wanna go 'ome."

"Tell ya what. I'll call ya a cab, baby doll-"

"No!" Anne yelped, disturbing her fellow boozers in the cigarette smoke-filled bar. "Not to my apartment, to my 'ome."

"You mean in the Bronx?"

"I'm not from the Bronx, Skip."

"Ya told me that's where ya were born."

A harsh laugh, almost a cackle, was issued from her constricted throat as Anne replied, "Well, I lied. I'm not from anywhere near there. I'm from California."

"That would be why ya got na accent."

Roger sat silent, staring at Buffy. Her eyes closed, then reopened as she looked right back at him. He was awoken from his trance only when he heard Skippy call out his name. "Yes?"

"Do ya mind takin' Annie home for me?"

"To California?" he asked incredulously.

"Na, na, to her apartment over on Ganesh Way."

The man shook his head no. "Just give me the directions and I'll take her… on one condition."

"Sure, wha?"

"You tell me how you met her."

"Oh sure. That's a fair deal. Annie came to me for a job 'bout two years ago, when I owned a little diner where that Palace place is now. She needed money real bad cause she'd got no place to live, 'cept for the YMCA. Seemed like she was runnin' away from sompthin, and she needed to get her mind off it and onto sompthin else. So, I gave her a waitressin' job, and we became real close. Although Annie's like a daughter to me, she never told me what it was she ran away from zactly, but it musta been real scary cause no matter how hard I try, she never tells me.

"Satisfied?"

"Quite. Thanks for the info, Skippy. I'll take her home now." Roger reached for Anne's trembling hand and grabbed it in his own. She felt a jolt in her fingertips as her skin pressed against his. Their eyes met and it was a strange connection that she had never before experienced. It wasn't passion, romance or love, but it definitely was something special. Then it was all broken the minute her old friend opened his mouth.

"Oh, Roger, before ya go, I have a question for ya, too. What is it ya're runnin' away from?" Skippy wondered, his bushy eyebrow raised up under his hat.

"I don't know what you mean."

"I think ya do. Go on, take my Annie home before she does sompthin stupider than just getting' herself stinkin' drunk."

Roger did as he was told and put an arm around the blonde, lifting her to her unsteady feet. He gingerly led her out the door and down to the streets, which remained still and empty within the iron grip of the winter battering down on the city. 

As he walked the girl home, all Roger heard was the wind squeaking through the stony rectangles, shrieking, "What is it that you are running from?"


	3. The Ice Cracks

Chapter Three – The Ice Cracks ****

Chapter Three – The Ice Cracks

Following the directions Skippy gave him, Roger led Anne back to her apartment building, Anne slinging her arm over his shoulder and dragging her feet behind her. It was slow going because of the weather, but the pair somehow managed to make it most of the way, Roger doing most of the grunt work. "You know, you could help me out here. There is a reason God gave you legs," he informed the slayer.

Her nod was greatly exaggerated because of the alcohol, and it bounced back and forth atop her neck like a ping pong ball. "Yea, I know, but why expend precious energy wen you can do all the work fer me?"

Instantly, Roger stopped in mid-stride and sat Anne roughly down on the cement stoop of an abandoned row house. While she slouched pitifully over, barely able to hold her own, the blonde lifted her head and scowled as angrily as she could manage. Her eyes burned with the fire of anger and alcohol: the deadly combination. "I really 'ate you."

"That phrase probably would have more of an effect on me if you weren't drunk out of your mind and you could pronounce all the letters of the alphabet. Also, it might have helped if that statement didn't sound like you ate me."

"Sut-up!" Anne ordered viciously. "Just take me 'ome."

Folding his arms across his broad, well-defined chest, Roger stared at the crumpled woman on the stairs as he said, "Not if you're gonna act so very rude and demanding. Geez, even when you're totally sauced, you're a bitch."

Suddenly, Anne snapped, and she burst into hot tears. Fat drops of salty water trickled down her face and onto the cement. "Please, I just wanna go 'ome!" she begged.

Seeing that her crying was genuine, Roger sighed and hefted Annie to her feet. "All right, let's go. Your apartment's right around the corner, so we don't have much further to go." She leaned exhaustedly into him only to start whining again. "No! Not there, I 'ate it there."

"You need to sober up, Annie, and that is a perfect place to do it."

"Can't we go somewere else? Wat about your place?" the slayer pleaded.

"My apartment's all the way on the other side of town. Besides, I don't need to wake up in the morning to find that my whole house smells like vomit and beer."

"Please," Anne whined, her eyes imploring.

Roger closed his eyes, a pained sigh escaping his thick lips. "Okay, okay! Just stop with the puppy dog eye thing."

"Why should I? It gets me what I want."

"Yeah, well, it may have worked this time, but you keep it up, and I'll develop an immunity to it. Then where will that leave you? Back to your apartment, that's where." Anne stared up at the man and smiled a lop-sided smile since all her muscles had relaxed. Slowly, she was beginning to uncover the real Roger Vlinters, the softer one that hid behind the muscular visage, the one she liked better.

@~~`~~~

After cruising through the snaking streets of Brooklyn in favor of the even more snaking streets of Manhattan in the confines of a tiny taxicab that reeked of incense, Anne and Roger stepped onto the curb in the pulsating heart of a midnight-lit city.

Curiously, the snow that fell here seemed somehow whiter than the gray stuff that fell in Brooklyn. The color was a purer, empyreal white, not the ashy hue such as in the flakes of the poorer communities. The ostentatiously dressed civilians of Manhattan were clothed in powdery ivory coats of snow overtop their fur jackets and Armani suits.

Through Anne's blurry eyes, all she saw was the golden light of the street lamps reflecting off of the icy blanket on the roads, and to her it seemed as though King Midas had walked down this street with his golden touch before their arrival. The sidewalks and the cars and the buildings were all bathed in a heavenly flaxen color, making the world appear as a giant bar of gold. How she wished that she could live in this Epicurean lifestyle like Roger did because compared to him, her life seemed oh so pedestrian. Briefly, Anne even felt a bit ashamed and embarrassed that he had seen what type of life she lived and where she lived it.

Without uttering a single word to each other, the two entered the granite building that towered above all the other structures in the neighborhood. Elaborate etchings encompassed the turn-style cherry wood and glass door and slithered up the building's stony sides, the rose bush carving branching off around the corners. Windows framed in oak and covered in a gold leaf coating stretched across all faces of the building in straight, very strict lines, but the sharp appearance made it look all the more elegant.

Peeking over the rooftop of the apartment complex were four gargoyles, each sitting on its own corner and each wearing a wanton, evil grin as it spread its stiff gray wings into the chill midnight air. The narrow slits in the stone that were the creatures' eyes flashed fire red as the minute piles of crystal snow glimmered in the flickering light of the beating heart atop a speeding ambulance. Meanwhile, the subtle folds in the beasts' rock hard flesh created an aged, forever look to their cement physiognomies – the wrinkles of the ancient ones.

Anne wobbled into the complex, using Roger as a crutch. She took particular interest in the spinning doors, as of that moment she was so drunk she could never recall seeing anything that magical before in her lifetime. "Come along, Annie," Roger ordered, tugging gently on her arm.

The blonde pirouetted around to look the man straight in the eyes; her glare filled with animus while reflecting in his shimmering brown irises and back into her own. Right now, she didn't know why, but she despised him. "Don't call me tat!" she slurred. "Call me Anne. Only my friends call me Annie, and you, sir, are NOT my friend!"

"What friends are you speaking of? I didn't know you had any."

"Ooh…" Anne growled ferociously. "You're gonna get it, mister!"

Taking her firmly by the wrist, Roger dragged the irate girl through the dazzling, golden lobby and over to the elevators set back in a rose colored hallway. He quickly pressed the up button and then mumbled something to himself about the top floor. "Oh, don't tell me you live in the pent 'ouse 'ere!"

"Okay, fine, I won't tell I live in the penthouse here. Will that make Miss Princess happy?" he shouted.

"No!" Miss Princess shouted right back.

"See tis guy right 'ere?" Anne asked a stranger standing right next to her while she pointed to her chagrined companion. " 'e owns the pent 'ouse. The pent 'ouse! Can you believe it?"

The sacred little man adjusted his tie nervously as he replied, "Ah, na…no. That's, ah, well, amazing." He pressed the up button as rapidly as he could, anxious to escape the obviously intoxicated woman wavering dangerously next to him.

"Sorry, sir. My friend here's just had a bit more to drink than she should have," he informed, ushering Anne behind him and away from the stranger.

Roger's words hardly helped to soothe the stout elf's nerves any. His eyes darted catywampously between the beautiful blonde girl and the powerful, strong man, who had his arm around her waist. "Yes, well, methinks you should try and get her to lead a more salubrious way of life. The whole drunk look isn't quite so flattering for such a kissable face."

"And metinks you sould sut-up!" Anne yelped angrily.

Roger placed his hand over her mouth to keep her from upsetting the other man more. Still, it was understandable why she would say something as rude as that. After all, where did this man get the right to say anything about her lifestyle to her? And that whole kissable thing. It was obvious even to the drunk that Roger was more than a little angry that he had said something like that about her. Pervert. "She's just had a really bad day," Roger explained.

"I can imagine," the man spit out distastefully. "Where is that blasted elevator!"

The soft ding announced the arrival of the most anxiously anticipated elevator. The whir of the gears as the doors opened sounded like crashing cars to Anne, and she squeezed her eyes shut as she tried to dull the pain in her ears. A few people climbed out of the lift as Roger, Anne and the chubby gnome climbed in it. "What floor?" inquired Roger as he promptly pushed 15 for his own. "Four." It was a short and simple answer, good enough for Roger.

Then, as he was going to push it, Anne dove wildly at the panel, shoving Roger aside. "I want to push the button!" And she did, and not just floor four either – all of them. Her companion rubbed his face with his hand as he smiled, totally embarrassed, at the other occupant. This was going to be a very long and silent ride. That cry from Anne was the last thing that was said as the lift made its halting way up the shaft. When the elevator finally stopped on the plastic garden gnome's level, he exited in complete silence, without saying so much as simple goodbye or even bothering to look back at the mix-matched couple. "Rude little man, don't ya tink?"

"Maybe if you hadn't scared him so damn much he wouldn't've acted like that."

"Ah, 'oo asked for your opinion anyway?" As he started to retort, Anne answered for him before he could even form a syllable. "No one did."

Instead of pursuing another fruitless argument (which he would inevitably lose), Roger decided to drop the subject in order to bring up a new topic of conversation. "How are you feeling?" Lame, but at least it was the start of a conversation nonetheless.

"Smased."

"Stupid question." 

The elevator finally came to halt on the top floor, and the pair stepped off together, Roger still holding her swaying form with his one arm. "Could you please reach into my coat pocket and get my keys for me?" he asked sweetly as he pulled Anne along with him to the closed white door at the end of the hall labeled: "Penthouse Suite."

Reluctantly, Anne dove her hand into his pocket, fished around just to make him uncomfortable, and then immediately found a ring of four keys. "Wat're all tese for?"

"One's for here, one's for my parents' house, one's for my car I never use, and the last one's for none of you business." All of the sweetness had disappeared from his voice as he spoke of the remaining key. "Now give 'em here." Roger presented his free hand to Anne, and she hesitantly forked over the keys to him. "Thank you."

The spot-free door swung open and the Roger and Anne entered Roger's neat and clean home. "Welcome to my humble abode. Make yourself comfortable anywhere you like. Only thing not offered to you is the alcohol."

Anne turned her suddenly green face toward Roger and managed to barely spit out the question "Were's you batroom?"

Even through the slur, he understood. "Oh god. Follow me, and hurry." He led her as quickly as humanly possible through the labyrinth of rooms and pointed her through the open doorway of a spacious powder room. She slammed the door shut, and Roger walked wearily over to the nearest chair in which he sat himself down.

After a few minutes had elapsed, he heard the toilet flush and then the sound of water running in the sink. Anne stepped out of the bathroom, her face no longer green, but red and glimmering from a good scrubbing. Upon her face she wore an abashed smile as she mouthed the word "Sorry." Strands of long, blonde hair had plastered themselves to her forehead and neck, and the rest of the tangled mass fanned her head in a disheveled manner. "Would you mind too terribly if I-"

"Took a shower?" he finished.

"Well, peraps more along the line of a bat?"

"What the hell is a bat?" Receiving an angry glare from her, Roger smiled and said, "Oh, a bath! I get it. Fine, sure. I don't want someone sleeping in my bed that smells like you do anyway."

"Now wait just a minute!" Anne flared. " 'oo said anything about me sleeping in your bed?"

"Would you rather sleep on the couch?"

A relieved countenance graced her face. "I tought you meant…" and she trailed steadily off, her cheeks flushing.

Roger laughed heartily at the confused woman before him. "You thought I was implying that I wanted to sleep with you?" He broke for another laugh that soundly strangely familiar to Buffy. "Oh, Annie, you are to funny! Imagine, me wanting to sleep – oh, here's the best part – with YOU!"

"It's not tat 'ard to fatom," she whispered softly. Then, in a booming voice: "Besides, you've been flirting wit me all night!"

Immediately, Roger was on the defensive. "Is that so? When did I ever come on to you?"

"Well, look were you brought me! Right back to your place."

"You asked me to!"

"I was drunk and vulnerable, wat'd you expect? At tat point I was very sus…sus, ah 'ell! I was ready to accept any suggestions I 'eard."

"So, you're saying I planted the idea to come back here in your mind? That's the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard, and I've heard some crazy things in my time."

"Well, so 'ave I, and this isn't one of 'em."

Roger laughed. "You have no idea."

"Oh," she started to herself, "I tink I do, Roger, I tink I do."

They continued the argument as Roger ran between rooms, gathering all the things he needed for Anne's overnight stay: clean sheets, towels, soap, etc. "Wat makes you so sure I'm even going to stay?"

"Because," Roger began as he rooted through his linen closet, "you don't wanna go home."

"You're wrong, Roger; I do want to go 'ome, more tan anyting else – just not back to tat God-forsaken apartment."

"Oh, that's right. You want to go back to California," he spit out with disgust. "It's not that great there, you know. Awfully lonely for such a populated state."

"No, it's awfully lonely 'ere. All of my friends are back tere. I could never be lonely in Cali."

"Yeah, well, you obviously didn't live there long enough," he stated absent-mindedly, and Anne wondered what his connection to the western state was. "I've been there before. What part are you from?"

"I'd rater not talk about it anymore. Is my stuff ready yet?"

"Hey," Roger barked, "you brought it up. Besides, I thought you wanted to talk about your home since you're so anxious to get back there."

Anne raised an eyebrow. "Maybe I did want to talk about it, but not wiff you."

"If not with me, then whom? Am I not the closet thing you have to a friend as you've got in New York?"

She thought about it for a moment and came to the startling realization that he was, though instantly she told him that he wasn't and that Skippy was. It was really strange for Anne to think that she'd made a connection with this man –of all people in New York City—that allowed her to become closer to him and share her secrets with him. The slayer hated him for what he'd done; nevertheless, she felt herself compelled to tell him more of her past than she'd ever told anyone here. Why? What made this guy different, other than the fact that he was the biggest jerk Buffy or Anne had ever met? He acted just like the rest of the ostentatious people of Manhattan. Who was this Roger Vlinters?

"Let's go," Roger ordered, picking her up and throwing her over his shoulder when she didn't move. "I don't need you stinking up my place any longer. Get in the shower." He shoved a pile of snow-white towels at Anne. "I threw in a shirt and a pair of boxers for you, too. While you take your shower, I'll make us some coffee."

Anne nodded approvingly at Roger, making her way into the bathroom attached conveniently to his bedroom. She looked around the immense room and remarked to herself about how it could practically be its own house. Tentatively, the former slayer stepped onto the cold, tiled floor and squinted at the room's sheer whiteness; the whole place practically glowed. A humongous bathtub/whirlpool/shower sat nestled in the corner, the silver fixtures winking enticingly at Anne. Her smile spread from ear to ear at the thought of taking a bath in the deep tub with the jets on full blast and lots and lots of bubbles. "I may not be out for awhile," Anne warned, never removing her gaze from the luxurious bathtub. Roger barely acknowledged her with a quick okay. And the slayer giggled, actually giggled for the first time in her entire life. "Yes!"

@~~`~~~

A little less than an hour later, Anne emerged from the bathroom and into the comfortably large living room. She seated herself next to Roger on his fluffy, overstuffed beige couch. "God," she started, breaking the silence between them. "I wish I could live in a place like this every day of the week. Where'd you get the money for an apartment like this anyway?"

After a brief moment of hesitation, Roger answered her question. "First of all, you sound better. I see your h's are starting to make their way back into your speech. Now, to answer you… my dad."

"That's it? Your dad? You mean to tell me he just handed over this fortune to you? There's more to this, and I want to know it."

With a heavy sigh and a heavy heart, Roger elaborated. "You are so nosey. My dad… He was… He's dead. Truck struck him from behind and, well… After the funeral I took the money and split, just picked up and left town without so much as a word to anyone except my girlfriend and my best friend. I didn't even tell my mom."

"Not even her?"

"She wouldn't've cared if I left or not, but she would taken the money for herself. My mother was always, I guess you could say, lost to me. She never once made any effort to get to know me. Of course, my dad didn't give a damn about me either, but my mother was always the one I longed to know better. At least I knew what my dad did for a living. When we had to fill out those stupid forms in school, I never could answer the question 'Where does your mother work?' You know, she never even cast me a second glance on my 16th birthday. But I don't hate her or him, for that matter. In fact, I really don't care at all about them anymore, which I guess may be even worse. The day I left, I knew it was the best thing I ever did, for myself and for others."

"How could you say something like that? Don't you think at least your friends deserved to know about what happened to you, even if your mom didn't?" Anne asked, intrigued, if not a bit angry. 

"I doubt it," Roger sighed. "After the way I treated them, I don't think that even today they could look me in the eye. You can't even imagine the horrible things I said, the terrible stuff I did. I think now they know I didn't mean any of it; it was just because of the two terrible losses I suffered. Still…"

"Two losses? Your dad and…" When he didn't answer Anne decided to drop the subject for the time being and change the path the conversation was heading. "So, your dad had money, huh?" Her scrutinizing eyes searched the soft colored room, finally coming to rest upon her glum companion.

"A good bit, obviously – he was a doctor. But all of this money didn't come from him." She was about to ask how, but he answered her without even hearing the question. "I've been very fortuitous when it comes to money. A lot of this I've won or even found. And of the jobs I've had, most of them were really well paying, and I made my own little fortune in just the span of three years. Plus, some of the money came from my college funds, which, for the most part, weren't tapped."

"You never went to college?"

"Oh yeah, I did, but I somehow was able to get a couple of scholarships and help with financing my four years there. Plus, I lived with some friends, which cut down on room and board expenses."

"So then how'd you get all those fabulous jobs?" the slayer inquired, now completely hooked on learning about Roger's life saga.

"I never said they were fabulous, just well-paying."

"Well, like what?"

"I'd rather not talk about work anymore tonight. Don't you agree we've had our fill of that?" She nodded. "Maybe some other time. Now it's your turn to answer my questions…"

Suddenly scared about what she might tell Roger in her intoxicated condition, Anne stuttered, "Roger, I don't-" His questioning look made her stop in mid-sentence. "One question."

"That's hardly fair."

"I don't care what's fair. One question is all I'll answer, and even then, only if it's within reason."

"Fine. Why are you in New York? I mean, what made you leave your home in California?"

"Roger, how is it that you managed to pick the one question I will not answer? I'm tired. I think I'll turn in now."

As Anne picked up and headed to his room in Roger's clothes, he stopped her by asking her quietly, "What is it you're running away from?" Her breathing was the only sound within the room. Not even the traffic below dared to enter the silence.

"My life." She turned from him and wandered toward the hallway. "I'm really tired, Roger. We'll talk later on. Goodnight."

Hushed footsteps whispered while she crossed the carpeted living room floor, and each time she placed a foot down she sighed. This was the kind of life that was lost to her and probably always would be. Here within the glow of the night, Anne found solace in the fact that she had made a new friend, or so she hoped. After what she had just done, she wasn't quite so sure anymore. The man sitting quietly on the couch had opened himself somewhat to her, trusted her with his secrets, and when he simply asked the same of her, Anne refused to answer. At least he was gentlemanly about it – as Anne would have never suspected before– and didn't pursue her any further. At least Roger did have some respect for her.

The bedroom was huge; it had a long, rectangular window spanning the area above his bed, giving the owner an incredible view of the downtown area and of Central Park. Velvet, white drapes framed the window and his bed underneath it, brushing the spotless carpet with their tips. Flanking the sides of the room were dressers and bureaus, all constructed out of cherry. Another white door perpendicular from the entrance camouflaged in with the pearly walls, and the only reason Anne was able to notice it was of the shiny gold, extravagantly made door handle that graced the door's right side. She assumed (and correctly) that it was his closet. Above her, built directly into the ceiling, was a tiny, dome-like chandelier with strings of crystals splitting the light and creating many hundreds of rainbows throughout the cheery room. Even now, after she had switched the lights off, the slayer could still see the ring of gold ivy leaves that circled the top of the wall, making its way all around the bedroom. 

Anne paddled gently over to the side of the bed and tentatively placed a hand on the down comforter. Instantaneously, it disappeared within the sheer softness of the bed, yet it felt as though it was suspended in space without anything to uphold it. The slayer put more of her weight on her hand, and slowly her arm, followed by her other hand, began to sink into the bed, vanishing further and further into the invisible below. Feeling like a child again, Anne pounced onto it, automatically being sucked down into the fluff and feathers.

As she curled up under the silken sheets and brought the comforter up to her chin, Anne compared this bed to the matchbox she slept in every other night of the year. Roger's bed was warm and inviting, hers was stiff and uncomfortable; his symbolized the wealthy life, hers symbolized the impecunious life.

This man was slowly changing her, and at the same time, she was slowly changing him. In the past day, Roger had entered her life like a whirlwind, flipping it upside-down and doing irreparable damage to it; nevertheless, he managed to make it a little bit brighter. How ironic it was that the person who had gotten her fired from her only means to support herself – her job – was also the person with which she was suddenly beginning an unexpected friendship. Anne knew she should hate him, knew she should despise the very ground he walked on, but for some reason unknown to her, the slayer couldn't. She was drawn to him. There was something mysterious about this man that piqued Anne's interest and made her want to decipher the enigma that was Roger Vlinters. She wondered if Roger felt the same way about her. After all, he had made several efforts to get to know the real Anne. The slayer sensed in his looks and attitudes that she had captured his interests as well, and despite what he really wanted to feel toward Anne, he was drawn to her, too. Of course, she could be totally imaging all of this, but Anne highly doubted it. In her two years of slayer experience, Buffy had almost relied strictly on her instincts and emotions, so even know as Anne Winters she still trusted in them and their ability to be correct.

Gradually Anne was lulled into the most peaceful, nightmare-free sleep she had ever experienced since she'd moved to New York. Minutes passed, and nothing stirred in the room. It was as if time had stopped completely – everything frozen within the moment her eyes closed for the night.

The door to the hallway was cracked open, and the lone stream of light that pierced the room was disrupted by a shadowy figure outside of it. Roger peeped in on her, checking to make sure Annie was comfortable in his bedroom and not frightened of this strange, new place. But obviously his trip had been pointless, for she was sleeping deeply already and seemed to be in the grips of a wonderful dream, her cherubic face beaming a truly happy smile.


	4. The Snow Melts

Chapter Four – The Snow Melts ****

Chapter Four – The Snow Melts

The following morning Anne emerged from Roger's bedroom smiling and rubbing her eyes. The orange-yellow sun had returned, with its bedazzling golden hairs falling down gently upon the snow-covered metropolis. Today it didn't seem nearly as draconian as it had yesterday. Today Anne didn't feel as though she was a prisoner either, but rather the jailer, holding the keys to all the cells.

Roger looked away from his television, which was tuned to the morning news. "Good morning, merry sunshine," he grinned, his lips dusted seductively with powdered sugar from a doughnut. "You're looking swell. How's your head?"

She touched her forehead lightly with her fingertips as she answered, "Throbbing a bit, but surprisingly okay. I've had worse hangovers from drinking half of what I did last night; however, this has to be the mildest headache I've ever received from alcohol. I think it was your bed."

The smile glowing on the handsome man's face was the most genuine she'd ever seen him wear, but it made Anne feel as though she'd seen it before. "Care to join me for some coffee and a doughnut?" he asked, offering a chair directly across from him.

Eagerly taking the open seat, Annie snatched up two jelly-filled doughnuts—she hadn't realized she had such a voracious appetite. Roger handed her a mug of steaming coffee, which she downed as quickly as the rest of her breakfast. Anne said, "Don't you think it's kinda funny how we hate each other so much, yet here we are, sharing breakfast and watching TV together in the same room?"

"Uh-huh," he nodded, keeping his gaze steady upon her.

Her eyes narrowed, and she stared back at the suave gentleman clad in a black workout shirt and silky gray pair of boxers. "What are you staring at?" she asked him while she herself looked him over, noticing the large, defined muscles in both of his arms and his legs. She flushed with embarrassment when she glanced up at his face and discovered that his line of sight was locked on her lips, which she instantly wet.

"Na…nothing," Roger stuttered, realizing he'd been caught. "You look rested."

"Best night's sleep I've had since I've been in New York."

"You've been here for close to five years, and last night was the best night's sleep you've had? You're joking me, right?"

A firm head shake informed him that he was way off base. "Do you mind if I live here forever?"

Roger laughed. "If it means I have to sleep on that infernal couch for the rest of my life, then yes, I do mind." The grins the two exchanged were warm and genuine. "Do you know how beautiful you look when you smile? My advice to you is that you should do it more frequently." His compliments made Anne feel strangely safe and happy inside, so much so that she could feel the heat from within her turning her cheeks pink.

The moment was interrupted when a loud voice on the television boomed, "Tragedy strikes again here in New York, this time claiming the life of a 19 year old boy. Kevin McCarthy, the youth struck down by a Wonder Bread truck, lost the battle for his life yesterday evening after fighting for three months in the hospital where he'd been sent to receive treatment for his massive injuries. For those who don't remember, Kevin had been crossing the Avenue of the Americas to get to the other side of W. 44th street on the eve of February 18th when a Wonder Bread truck came screeching through the intersection, completely unaware that the boy was on the road. After—" Abruptly, Roger jumped out of his seat and switched off the television, without so much as a word of warning.

As he sat back down, he looked at Anne again, pain swimming in the back of his eyes. "Sorry, I just couldn't take it anymore. I…"

"Understandable. I wasn't even watching it. When'd he die?" she questioned, referring to his father.

"About four years ago, huh? You'd think the pain would stop, especially since it was a man I hardly cared to know and one who cared even less to know me." Roger paused very briefly, trying to hide the hurt. "But let's not discuss that this morning. Today is a perfect day, and I sure as hell don't wanna spoil it with all this sad talk."

"Maybe, though, it would be—"

Instantly, Roger jumped in to interrupt her. "And maybe it wouldn't." His tone was harsh and filled with anger, like it had been before Anne had gotten a chance to know him yesterday. "Perhaps later today, when the sun has gone down," he began, putting the reigns on his hostility. "How about after my interview with this new company, we can go out and do something."

"Together?" Anne inquired incredulously, both astonished and surprised by the fact that he would want to do anything with her.

"Of course together! Unless, you didn't want to…"

"No, no, I didn't say that. You just gave me quite a surprise, that's all. No, I'd definitely would love to do something with you, Roger."

While clapping his hands, the muscled man smiled broadly. "Great! My interview is at 2:30. Perhaps we could meet in Central Park at the Befesda Fountain at four or so, and we could have a late lunch-slash-early dinner."

"That'd be wonderful, providing your buying."

"Well, if you're gonna throw in all these conditions, I don't know…" Roger scratched his chin in mock contemplation. 

"Hey, you have to. Where am I going to get the money? You got me fired, remember?" Not that Anne really minded anymore—she could probably find a better job elsewhere with her skills anyway—she just liked using it as a bartering chip.

A frown fluttered across Roger's countenance. "Annie, once again I'm sorry about—"

Anne laughed at the guilt-ridden man at the other end of the table. "Relax, Rog. I was just messing with you. Frankly, I really don't care at all that I don't work at the Palace anymore. I hated it there anyway. The people sucked, and so did the wages, I guess. And I was going to quit on my own, but I was just too lazy to go out and search for another job."

"You're sure you're not still mad? I mean, I don't want any hard feelings between us. I like you, Annie, and I certainly want to get to know you better," he confessed. "There's something in you that I didn't notice before, and, well, frankly, I'm intrigued."

"You just want me to stay another night," she joked casually.

In all seriousness, he answered her comment. "Would it be so bad if I did?"

Their eyes locked; neither one was able to look away from each other. She smiled a chagrined smile, blushed and finally turned away from Roger. No one had ever been able to make her blush like he could; he had a knack for it. Without replying, Anne got up and placed her cup in the dishwasher while saying, "I need to run over to my apartment to get some clothes, and I also have to return my uniform and nametag to the Palace. I think that by four o'clock I should be ready. This is a casual date, right?"

"Who said anything about it being a date? I simply asked you if you wanted to accompany me to dinner. Would you call that a date now?"

The slayer's spirits plummeted a bit, surprisingly. "No, I guess I wouldn't. Still, what should I wear?"

"Have you got anything on the fancier side?"

Absent-mindedly, Anne repeatedly straightened the Hard Rock Café T-shirt she was wearing when she responded, "Not really." Her mouth issued an embarrassed laugh when she continued. "The fanciest thing I owned was my work uniform, and I don't even own that anymore."

"Worry not, Annie," Roger ordered, laying both hands on her sagging shoulders and massaging them lightly. It was wonderful. His touch sent tingles down her spine, and it seemed so familiar, yet he had never touched her like this before. It was easy to follow his command to relax so long as he was rubbing her neck with his fingertips. "I'll give you some money and you can go downtown and buy any dress you want. Whatever your heart desires. I'll even pay for the accessories."

"I can't ask you to do that, Roger."

"Relax, you didn't."

She arched an eyebrow. "Still. Can't we just go to McDonald's or something? After all, if this isn't a date, what's the big deal?"

Roger removed his hands quickly. "There isn't one, but I thought it might be sorta fun to get all decked out, don't you?" When she didn't initiate any response, he took it as a sign of resignation. "Okay then, it's settled. Four o'clock, at the Befesda Fountain in Central Park. We'll meet there, then where we go next is a surprise."

On his way out of the kitchen, Roger laid a pile of bills on the table. "That's for the dress. And don't think twice about taking the money. Remember, I have plenty of it." He didn't mean for his last statement to sound snooty, and it didn't. He just wanted to reassure her that it was okay. The closer he got to his bedroom, the more his voice faded, his last sentence almost barely audible. "And don't give me that crap about pride and doing things for yourself. Think of it as a birthday present; this is my treat. So just take the money and go." Anne opened her mouth to protest, but shut it as soon as she heard him speak. "Zip it, Anne. Just take the money."

Judging by the size of the pile and the faces of the presidents looking up at her, Anne suspected there to be between $250 to $300 there. Wow. Apparently she was going somewhere really nice for a non-date—perhaps the Rainbow Room or the Sign of the Dove even! And since the last time she had visited Central Park was getting close to five years ago, Anne was thinking this was going to be quite the night to remember.

@~~`~~~

Back at her apartment on Ganesh Way, Anne noticed how shabby the place really was. Being in Roger's wonderful house had completely put it to shame. The splendor of his household remained deeply embedded in her mind, and it was all Anne could do to keep herself from shouting with glee because she had met such a rich, handsome guy, who just so happened to be interested in her. Granted, Roger had the capability to be a tremendous jerk, but the slayer couldn't help but think that she could eventually smooth out his rough edges.

Rummaging through her barren closet, Anne realized she wasn't looking for anything in particular. She had already found her nametag attached to her bedspread; her uniform she'd had on all last night; and she was in no need for any clothes for tonight, since she was buying a new dress. Then, Annie realized what she was searching for was a photograph. Last night, while laying in Roger's bed, the slayer felt an irrefutable urge to gaze at a picture she had taken long ago—about six years ago. Beneath a winter coat and under a hat, the object she was seeking revealed itself. The picture was of the whole Scooby Gang—Giles, Oz, Willow, Xander and herself. It was outlined with silver, and etched in the bottom of the frame was the cliché, "Friends Forever". They were all standing outside the entrance of the high school. It was quite beautiful, but Anne had hidden it because she didn't feel as though she could bare all of those smiling faces everyday, knowing that the sight would never again be able for her to see.

Xander's face was particularly happy. He had an arm around Willow and the other arm around Buffy, with is forehead pressed gently against the blonde's. His smile was one of pure joy and his eyes sparkled like diamonds. These were the times Buffy yearned for, especially on saturnine days like this yesterday. She wanted the kind of days when the sun shined fabulously through the shady trees, where everyone was just happy because they were together, and the beautiful moon twinkled on a clear night in the cemetery. Back in Sunnydale, Buffy never felt like the pariah as Anne did in New York, but now, thanks to Roger Vlinters, she didn't feel that way anymore.

Sadly, Anne placed the picture face down in the pile of clothes and turned to leave, just as she had when she left California: quickly and quietly.

Without so much as a glance behind her, the slayer exited her apartment to go shopping where she had always wanted to…on Fifth Avenue.

@~~`~~~

Four o'clock rolled around quicker than Anne had thought it would, probably because she hadn't had this much fun since she had come to New York. The blonde waited anxiously for her companion's arrival at the fountain, tapping her foot and playing with the silver cross around her neck. She traced circles with her fingertips in the snow that covered the layer of ice.

Where was he? Doubts flooded Anne's mind suddenly. Was Roger ever going to up and show, or was this a cruel trick? Was last night just another night for him? 

The last question caught the slayer's attention instantly. Had last night been more than just a regular night for her? Yeah, she had lost her job at the Palace. Yeah, she had gotten drunk out of her mind. And yeah, she had slept in the proverbial "lap of luxury," but she had the distinct feeling that it had meant something more to her than simply a good night's rest and a free breakfast in the morning. Spending time with Roger had made Anne feel like she had back home—safe and needed, and most importantly, wanted. If he didn't show up, Anne knew she would be alone again—as utterly alone as she had been before him, and that was something the slayer never wanted to feel again.

As a breeze tore through Central Park, bombarding Anne's body with flakes of snow and bits of ice, a man stepped out from behind an ancient oak tree. Had Anne not had the old slayer instincts, she might not have seen him, seeing as he was slyer than the stealthiest fox. He was dressed totally in an attractive, very flattering navy blue suit—as he had been yesterday—which was pressed and perfect right down to the meticulously ironed seams. A snow-white handkerchief was placed rigidly in his left breast pocket. His hair was done to absolute perfection, a few strands of wispy, chestnut hair sweeping dramatically across his brow in the wind. The smile portrayed on his face matched only one other's in the world; it was large and welcoming and sent out a comforting feeling of amity. Roger looked so suave, so urbane; he was absolutely dressed-to-kill. "Please," he said coolly, "don't drool, not on this suit anyway."

"You, Roger, are the most grandiose, full-of-himself man I've ever met in my life. Imagining that I would drool over you! That's a laugh! I bet I wouldn't do that even if I were unable to control my own bodily functions. I'd still have enough sense left in me to remember that you are not worth one drop of my precious saliva."

"Your precious saliva? What is wrong with you?"

"I've been trying to figure that out ever since I agreed to go on a date with you." He threw on an amused grin and proceeded to offer her his arm. She slipped hers through his own, and together they walked through the park, enjoying the remaining sunlight that cast its happy glow upon the metropolis.

"You really do look magnificent, Annie," Roger commented as he stopped to glance her over completely. 

The slayer was dressed as she had never been before. She wore a long, flowing dress made of imported silk with metallic silver threads interwoven that shimmered in the twilight. The gown had an empire waist, and the bust was embellished with tiny, pinkish pearls sewn directly onto the fabric. Since it was a sleeveless dress, Anne had purchased a silver jacket that came to the waistline and barely managed to keep out the frigid air. The skirt flared out around her silvery white sandaled feet and rippled hypnotically as the wind currents curled around her. A shiny string of rose-colored pearls adorned her slender neckline, and in her ears were the matching earrings of diamonds tops with pearl drops dripping from the shiny stones. "Thank you," Anne replied, turning pink from an inner heat. "I assume then that you like?"

"Like is hardly the correct word I would use. I was thinking more along the lines of love. It was made for you." Anne flushed some more. "Shall we?"

She obliged. "We shall. Where are we going anyway?"

"It's a surprise," he informed her as they headed toward the car-lined street. Roger waved for a cab, and after a brief wait, he got one. A little yellow car pulled up along the roadside and halted abruptly, the front window rolling down at Roger's motion. A scruffy faced, middle aged Italian man sat squarely behind the steering wheel, chewing on some gum. Roger crossed to the window, ordering Anne to stay where she was, and leaned over into the cabby's ear and whispered something inaudible to him. The driver nodded in agreement, and Roger retreated from the window, opening the back door for Anne. 

After the taxi had merged again with traffic, Anne turned to glare almost accusingly at the man sitting next to her. Upon his face gleamed a grin that could only be described as mischievous. She arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow curiously in his direction, inquiring, "All right, mister, where are we going and in exactly what kind of subterfuge are you engaged?"

"What?" he replied innocently, putting on his best forthright face.

"A friend of mine used to wear that same face when he was up to something as clandestine as this, which usually meant he was up to no good. So spill. What is it you're planning?"

"Honestly, Anne, it's just a normal dinner followed by an innocent post-dinner stroll. Tell me what's wrong with that plan?"

"Nothing, if you're telling me the truth, which you're not."

"What will it take for you to believe me?"

"A miracle," she grinned. When he didn't volunteer anything further, Anne sighed in resignation, knowing that this night had been intended to be a surprise, and it was going to remain just that. "Fine, fine. At least tell me how long until we get there."

"My, my, my. You are an impatient young woman, aren't you?"

"Yeah, well, patience isn't one of my virtues."

"I've noticed this."

Their idle chitchat continued while the taxicab wove dangerously through the mass of humming vehicles that clogged every street and alley for miles as each tried to get its passengers to their desired destination as speedily as possible. Rule number one in taxi driving: the faster he got there, the bigger the tip. 

Eventually, the car crossed into Brooklyn without Anne's knowledge, seeing as Roger kept her as occupied as he could. It slowed to a stop outside the Palace of Versailles, where the slayer exited the cab with her mouth agape. Roger paid their driver, and the yellow bee they'd arrived in buzzed away, rejoining its swarm in the streets. Anne punched her dinner partner hard in the arm, yelling, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I was just about to ask you the same question! What was that for? This is one of my favorite restaurants; it's even got a four star rating."

"Roger, you insensitive jerk! You know I just lost my job here! I can't show my face in that place!"

"Don't you just wanna go in though and rub all of their snotty faces in it? Show them you have it better off than you did with the job? You don't work there anymore, so they can't do anything to you."

"Now, that's not exactly true, is it? Next time I go out for a job, the employer will do a background check and talk with my bosses. If Michelle answers, there's no way in hell I can land that job. I'll be permanently screwed! Can't we go somewhere else?" Anne pleaded, her voice begging.

"I thought you'd never ask." Annie raised her eyebrows again, in total disbelief.

"What did you just say?"

"I said I thought you'd never ask. You see, you're very lucky I have a backup plan, one that will knock your socks off (if not more)."

"You do? And just what was the last part? Did I hear an 'if not more?'"

"Um, no. And of course I had a backup plan! Did you really think I'd take you in there? After all, you did tell me you hate it here." 

She smiled genuinely at Roger, her whole body relaxing at the thought that she wouldn't have to set foot inside there ever again. "All right. I'll go to your 'second plan,' providing this time you tell me where it is we're going."

"You sure do drive a hard bargain, missy," Roger stated laughingly, "but you're worth it." Anne beamed brightly and wound a tendril of blonde hair around her finger as she shifted her weight uncomfortably back and forth. "We're going back to Central Park," he confessed, changing the subject. "I reserved a pavilion there for us. And don't say it's too cold for that sort of thing; I've taken care of that. Everything's ready and waiting, so let's get a move on already!" Roger grabbed Anne by her hand and dragged her right behind him to the sidewalk's edge where he flagged down a cab with his free arm. They clambered into the enclosed space, watching as the buildings and pedestrians whizzed by outside their windows.

This taxi smelled of orange peels and cinnamon instead of the usual overpowering smell of incense or the stink of sweat and smoke. Something she also noticed was that this was the cleanest cab she'd ever been in since she'd moved to Brooklyn. It seemed that anything that she did with Roger always turned out to be nicer and safer and cleaner than if she were to do it on her own.

Finally, the car came to a halt, and Anne got out while Roger paid the cabby, who nodded appreciatively at the size of his tip. They exchanged a few words before Anne's partner rejoined her, and they started their trek to the pavilion.

The spidery, barren trees cracked and moaned in the winter winds while Anne shivered visibly within her coat. In order to calm her noticeably shaking form, Roger slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer to him. She felt the heat of his own body penetrate the thin fabric of her dress, and it felt so good, Anne leaned into him more. Tips of the trees' ancient, variegated leaves poked through the blanket of ice and snow and waved for clemency with their mottled fingers in the fire of the dying light. They were like the ghostly fingers of souls reaching up out of Hell. Roger's trench coat bit at Anne's legs as the freezing breezes caught the tails and battered her calves with them; however, the pain faded within the romantic moment as though it had never existed.

Beneath a withered, gnarly oak was the pavilion in which they were to have their dinner date. Anne could tell instantly that this was the one, for she could see a pair of candelabras holding three ivory candles in each, burning brilliantly in the fog just beginning to roll over the land. A prodigious amount of food graced the picnic table set with a tablecloth as white as the wintry scene around them and golden silverware that was alight with the flames of the candles.

As the couple stepped onto the cement floor, instantly the incredible smells initiated from the cornucopia of exotic foods surrounded her, setting her olfactory and gustatory senses on overload and making her want to faint with desire. Definitely Roger was not the parsimonious guy like she had originally assumed when she'd met him.

Without so much as a word of warning to her partner, the slayer ran to the table, clasping her hands together in pure joy at the sight stretched out before her. Her keen eyes searched every square in of the table as she let her excitement rush through her in waves, devouring the scrumptious meal within her mind. A sigh escaped her pink lips, and Roger seemed to breathe it into himself.

It wasn't until she heard him breathe that Anne became aware of his presence. In the midst of her enthusiasm over dinner she had forgotten about him. Her eyes slid slowly from their dinner to the paragon of good taste standing idly by, who was leaning against a wooden pillar and watching her every move intensely. His perfect hair ruffled in the wind, swaying rhythmically with the candlelight; those two things were all that moved inside this winter wasteland. The silence that had fallen between the two of them was hardly uncomfortable or unfamiliar –it was almost natural, as if it were meant to be this way at this moment in time.

The clouds of Anne's breath wove their way into the air and became one with Roger's own, wisps of the smoky fog flirting dangerously with each other, dancing their forbidden dance, then converging into one entity—one mass of thinning gray. The remaining smoke curled sensuously around the New York haze and disappeared into the night. 

Their gaze never broke. For one brief second in the infinite span of time, they were as one as their breath was.

Gradually, Roger closed his eyes and looked away almost painfully, as though he feared what would happen if those feelings continued. His voice sounded tortured as he spoke. "I'll bet you're hungry after all that shopping today, huh?"

"Yeah," she answered in a disappointed tone.

Wait. Exactly from where inside her did that come? Why did she feel so let down by his reaction to their intimate moment? After all, she had just met the guy—and she had even spent the first day hating him—so why did she feel so attracted to him, other than the obvious sexiness factor? Oh great! So now she was attracted to him! Well, who wouldn't be drawn into the mystery of Roger Vlinters? He was muscular, smart, rich and, most importantly, single. But Anne reasoned that that wasn't why she experienced such a strong pull toward the handsome young man. Rather, it was the simple fact that she felt so safe when she was near him. They had just met, but every second further the two spent together, Anne felt herself being drawn deeper and deeper in the enigma of the Vlinters boy.

"So let's eat," he said flatly as he smoothed the wrinkles that were in the blanket covering the benches. Roger motioned for her to have a seat and she complied willingly. It was wonderful to sit down after a hard day of traveling into almost every store on Fifth Avenue.

The pair immersed themselves in their food and pleasant conversations throughout the entire meal. Only twice the two were disturbed; both times it was a direct result of the wind, which Roger quickly remedied by unrolling a large blanket and tethering it to the top and bottom of the side of the pavilion through which the wind blew. "You certainly come prepared, don't you?"

"No, not normally. Only when the situation calls for it in advance, and I think this was one of those few times."

The sun had now set below the frozen, paralyzed horizon, and the diamonds high above in the heavens twinkled marvelously upon the shell of shimmering nacre encompassing the landscape. A fantastic, grandiose moon beamed innocuous, nevertheless, frightening pearly light onto the metropolis, creating the illusion of a barren wasteland empty of all life—only ruins left for the rest of eternity to eradicate with its awesome powers.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Annie asked him, contemplating the miraculous scene before her.

"Absolutely. No where else in this whole city can you feel so isolated, yet so at peace. It's like lovely calm descends upon me, and all the problems I have in this world just… leave me. I feel empty, however, at the same time completely full."

She was struck by his beautiful and enlightening words. That was exactly how she felt now with him. "I haven't seen a night like this since I arrived here five years ago."

Though his gaze remained fixed on the glowing orb dangling above his head, Roger changed the subject. "Why did you come here, Annie?"

She was silent for awhile as she processed his words in her mind. Anne knew full well that she couldn't trust Roger with this highly private information yet, but she didn't see why she couldn't give him the gist of the reason behind it. "It's a really long story," the slayer began, hoping that this weak attempt might dissuade any further probing.

"I've got time."

As she had expected, she failed, and she sighed in heavy resignation. "All of my life I've been what most everyone would call an outcast; I'm different. I know it, as does the rest of the world; they just never understood what made me that way. They always could tell there was something 'off' about me, but they never knew what that something was. Of course, I never shared it with them because that would only push me father off of the 'cool chart' than I already was. Besides, it could have put me in even more danger than I was already in. Through the course of the years I tried hundreds of different methods to get them to accept me, and eventually, one of them worked.

"Back when I was in, oh say, eighth grade, I started to involve myself with school more and more. You know, cheerleading, pep club, yearbook, that sort of thing. And I started hanging around the popular crowd, hoping that their popularity might rub off on me, too. Finally, it did.

"The year I started tenth grade, that's when the walls came crumbling down. I was expelled from school, so my mother and I moved away."

"Where was your dad during all of this?" Roger questioned, his full attention now resting on her.

"My parents got divorced in the midst of the mayhem that my life had become.

"Anyway, we moved from LA to a quaint—well, at the time that was how it seemed—little town in the suburbs of the city.

"At first glance it appeared nice enough. My first day of school wasn't nearly as traumatic as I dreamed it would be (although I can't say the same for the rest of the days); hell, I even made a few friends! All seemed right with the world. I finally experienced the feeling that this was where I truly belonged. Then everything changed in the blink of an eye… once again. As if I weren't already an outcast, everything that was to follow only pushed me further away from people, yet brought me closer to a select few friends, one of whom I fell in love with."

The intrigued man that sat directly across from the slayer turned to her and stared deeply into her eyes, as if searching for an answer. "Was he the one you were talking about in the bar last night?"

"Did I talk about him? I was so sauced, I don't even remember talking about him."

"Wasn't he the older man that you quote 'killed?'"

Suddenly a worried look crossed Anne's face. She had said that? Oh, that was the last time she would get drunk! Her fear-choked voice cut the stale air like a knife. "D…did I say his name?"

"No," Roger replied bluntly, even a bit of agitation showing in his tone, "not that it would matter anyway; I wouldn't know him."

"True, but I promised I would never speak of 'him' again because it just hurt too damn much."

"Boy, do I know how that is! So what happened with 'him?'"

Anne closed her eyes tightly, fighting back the pain as best she could. "When I moved, every aspect of my life changed, including my love life. In LA I used to date guys constantly, and they were never the same one. I'd use 'em, then lose 'em, or so says the old cliché. But that all changed when I moved to the suburbs and underwent a makeover in my lifestyle, especially when I met 'him.'

"The two of us hit it off really well. The physical attraction, as well as the romantic allure that comes when someone is off limits to you and you know it, was there. He was everything I wanted in a man and more: good-looking, well-built, mysterious, smart, experienced. The only complication, aside from one other thing (which I won't go into), was his age."

Roger smiled as he recalled what Anne had said about their age difference. "Oh yeah, didn't you say he was almost 250 years old or something like that?"

"No," she answered aloud. Then inwardly: "More like 240 years!" She waved at him to stop his interruptions.

"Sorry," he apologized.

"You should be. Now let me finish.

"The more time I spent with him, the more I grew to love him. And it wasn't just puppy love or a crush either. It was true love, the real thing all little girls start dreaming about when they're only five or six. I refused to believe it at first. I never thought I could love someone his type, much less someone his age."

"And what type would that be?"

"Roger!" Anne cried. "Would you let me finish. Or aren't you interested anymore?"

"No! No! Sorry, proceed."

"Yes, like I was saying, we fell in love. I knew it was Fate. She had finally dealt me a winning hand at something. But it's funny, isn't it, how quickly things can change… how quickly people can?

"As it turned out, Fate wasn't so kind to me as I originally believed her to be. As I found out, she's a cruel, vindictive, hateful bitch who likes to spurn her little marionettes by cutting their lifelines at their happiest moments. In case you can't tell, this is the point in my life where all things turn sour."

"Believe me, I could pretty much tell."

"My love, he, well, I can't explain it really, but he turned on me. He, he killed some very dear friends of mine, emotionally ruined me, destroyed my family life and so much more. Hardly the quintessential period in my lifetime."

Roger stared with eyes as saucer-like as the moon. His heart and breath stopped. "He killed people?"

She nodded solemnly. "Two friends of mine and who knows how many more. Not to mention, he tortured," and Anne paused slightly, "my father."

"That sick son-of-a—"

"No, Roger! It wasn't like that! It wasn't his fault!"

"Oh no? You really believe that? He killed your friends, Anne; he tortured your father, for Christsakes! He's the reason you left your family and friends behind only to subject them to the pain of losing you. How can you even think for one moment that he's innocent?"

Anne was crying now. She could understand why he'd be upset about the fact that someone had tortured ANYONE'S father, but he didn't have to get on her case about it. Tears flowed freely from her already red eyes. "I never said he was innocent! I was there when he did some of those things! I saw him do them! But he wasn't the same man I loved. He even answered to a different name. I know in my heart that he never meant to hurt me, but there were outside forces influencing him—forces so strong he couldn't resist their pull, and I don't think anyone else could either. Don't think I'm trying to rationalize this to you of all people because I'm not, but I'm just trying to…"

"You're trying to blind yourself from the truth, Annie," Roger broke in softly, reaching across the table to hold her hand. She didn't pull away from his touch even though everything inside her was screaming for her to do so. His gentle, smooth voice filled Anne's ears and almost succeeded in calming her dying soul. "If he truly loved you, he wouldn't've done such things to you. Haven't you ever heard the old aphorism: 'Love conquers all.' If your love were true—as you say it was—whatever evil possessed him, he could still have overcome."

"Only in fairytales, Roger, not in real life. You don't know how many times I've dreamt that that would happen—that he would walk back into my life and everything would be okay and everyone would be alive—but those were only dreams. Reality is far crueler, and it certainly doesn't follow the rules. Do you have any idea what it is like to yearn for something that you know you'll never have?"

Roger put on a goofy smile and closed his eyes momentarily. "Yeah, I think I do…"

"Well then, you know what I mean. It's a kind of pain that can only be allayed by whomever it is you're dreaming of, not some panacea like a new boyfriend or girlfriend." The young man nodded slowly.

"Have you ever been in love, Roger? Not just the high school crush kind, but the storybook kind?" Anne asked, drying her eyes with her free hand. She sniffled a few times, almost obliterating the flames on the candles with her wet breath.

Roger closed his eyes and turned away from her, pain showing through in his every movement. "I was, once." His voice dropped a couple decibels and was choked with emotion, obviously for a love lost much the same as herself. 

"I always thought she was simply a little crush, you know, only a product of beauty because my raging hormones made her out to be. So I went on deluding myself just like that for almost a year, and when my feeling for her never wavered, I began to suspect something more. In fact, each time I saw her fantastic face she only seemed to become more wonderful, more beautiful. In my mind's eye I put her on a pedestal so high above that no other woman could ever compare. 

"But she never loved me the way I loved her. You see, there was this other guy, and when he would walk in to the room she would always forget totally about me. Of course, there were times in out friendship where I thought I saw the possibility for something more to grow between us, but deep inside I knew I would never be the one for her. It was all a hopeless fantasy, nothing more. Still, I found myself wishing she would look at me—just once—the way she did for her true love. I'd give anything for that." His was a wistful sigh that echoed through every corner of Anne's mind. 

"Then, she left. Just like that. Gone. Not a word or warning. Nothing. I always knew without her love I would never be completely whole, but at least I could survive on her friendship. When she left I didn't have anything left to cling to. I felt alone, abandoned and very, very angry. The whole damn town reminded me of her. I kept thinking, 'Wow! She took a breath here!' and 'Wow! This was where she combed her hair once!' I saw her in my friends, in my hangouts, everywhere. My dad's death was only the straw that broke the camel's back. He gave me a real reason to ship on outta there and go searching for my lost love.

"Eventually, my journey for her ended, and the journey to find my own self began. Day by day I sat alone in a train car or on a bus looking, not out the window, but into the reflection of myself—into my soul—and I was alarmed by what I saw. I saw a cold, steely, heartless man rotted away by anger and hurt feelings, and underneath him I saw my withered youth, crumbling in the icy grip of the new me. Though I tried to change, the Spartan lifestyle that I had been forced to live stuck with me. I thought that if I changed the world around me drastically some things might change within me. I was wrong.

"I never let go of the memory of the girl back in California. I know if I don't, my life will never be any good again, and I'll never be happy. But you know what else I'm finding out, Anne?"

"Hmm?" she whispered into the paper dry air. 

"With your help, I think I might get a chance at that happy life after all." Roger turned back to the gorgeous blonde and took both of her hands in his own, bringing them gently to his lips for a kiss.


	5. Gathering Thunderheads

Chapter Five – Gathering Thunderheads ****

Chapter Five – Gathering Thunderheads

Rays of polluted sunlight sifted through the lacy-curtained window, falling directly upon the figure lying in the prone position under a protective layer of sheets. Anne awoke to find herself strangely comfortable in her bed in her apartment. The warmth of the covers and the feel of the morning sun upon her face fogged her mind, which she hardly minded since it was a pleasant feeling. Gradually Anne's senses returned, and she was able to recall the fabulous dream she'd had last night.

The slayer dreamt that she'd been wined and dined by a handsome, mysterious young man. They exchanged secrets with each other that no one else knew, and when that was done, he had taken her hands and kissed them—a romantic gesture such as she had never dreamed with Angel before. After dinner in a wintry, moonlit park, they decided to walk back to his place instead of taking a cab. It was not that far of a walk in the first place, but substantial enough for Anne to be chilled by the icy winds. In an effort to warm her, as well as be romantic, Anne's companion wrapped his suit jacket around her shoulders, then he slid an arm about her thin waist, drawing her closer to him. 

When they got back to his place, the gentleman asked for a dance. He played an old song from the 1920s—perfect for this night. Anne wanted to feel closer to him, so she welcomed with him when she was in his embrace; it was oddly recognizable and comforting. She tugged him closer, his inviting, muscular arms tightening their hold on her. Anne sighed dreamily as she placed her head gingerly on his shoulder and snuggled it up against his neck. At one point in the song, the man loosened his grip on her enough so he might dip her. Anne was surprised, but pleasantly so. She looked up at him to smile in merriment and was thoroughly shocked by the guy whom she was holding.

Xander Harris.

His smile was one of impatience; his whole face looked as though he was ready to explode if he didn't receive a kiss soon. He lifted her up and brought her face to his own, pressing his forehead against hers, their lips dangerously close. Buffy held her breath, awaiting what she was sure would transpire. The slayer felt his head shift ever so slightly, then all she felt was Xander's lips pressing passionately against hers. Buffy's eyes fluttered shut, her lashes kissing his cheeks with their feathery tips. 

The kiss was magnificent. Buffy had never experienced anything like it before, and even for a dream kiss it was extraordinary. This was beyond all wows. And, as it is often said, one thing led to another. A tangle of lips became a tangle of arms and legs and then a tangle of silken sheets. If her dream had only been real…

Anne sat up in her bed, the ivory covers falling to her waist and exposing her nakedness to the other occupant of the room. He emerged from the hidden closet just in time to see the show. Anne blushed furiously—all over—as she realized the fact that it hadn't been a dream after all, and also at the fact that she wore nothing but her birthday clothes. "Someone appears to be clothing challenged," Roger stated matter-of-factly, an impish grin plastered on his face. Instinctually, Anne yanked the covers up to her chin. "It's a little late to be shy, Annie, don't ya think?"

The blonde turned away, examining her beautiful silver dress lying crumpled in a ball on the floor; his suit jacket was tangled with the skirt frills. In fact, all of her clothes were strewn upon the ground: shoes, stocking, jackets, etc.

"Uh, Anne? Are you okay?" Roger asked concernedly, moving in toward the bed. "I mean, last night was, uh, well, not what I was expecting it either. Are you… okay with it? I wanna know if you regret what happened or not because I don't, not even for a minute. However, it doesn't matter how I feel, only how you feel."

"I feel, I feel… drunk. What did I have to drink last night?"

"One glass of water and two glasses of champagne."

"Ugh," the slayer moaned. "Feels like I guzzled down the whole bottle. Everything from last night is so fuzzy, I can hardly even remember my own name, and yours too, for that matter."

"Let me refresh your memory then. My name is Roger… Winters. Your name is Anne… uh, what is your last name anyway. You never told me."

The slayer laughed humorously at Roger. "It is not! Your name is Vlinters, not Winters."

"Where ever did you get that ludicrous idea?"

"It was on that resume I gave you."

Now it was Roger's turn to laugh. "Ah, I suppose you mean the one that fell in the puddle Monday afternoon, the one that also said my first name was Hogan?"

"Yeah, well, you never said Winters was your last name!" Anne gasped exasperatedly.

"Right, because you didn't ask."

Anne rolled her eyes. "You are so corny! The point is you let me believe that your last name was Vlinters… for the last two days!"

"Hey, I tried to tell you several times, but every time I was interrupted by something or someone—usually you. But that doesn't answer my original question: What is your last name?"

Anne laughed quickly, a heavy tone of amusement present within it. "Winters! Anne Winters!"

Roger raised his eyebrow in curiosity as he tried to determine if she were telling him the truth or not. "Are you joking me?"

Her smile was warm and generous, her eyes lit by an inner light she had not felt present there since Sunnydale. "No, I'm not joking you. I'm really quite serious. That is my last name, too!" And her voice broke with laughs.

"Well, you certainly don't look like you're serious. You're naked, laughing and smiling, and that makes me think that you're just kidding around with me." Suddenly Roger's voice grew deep and was chocked full of mock concern. "You don't think we're related, do you?" He obviously didn't believe that they were, but he was checking to see if she herself believed it. 

Another laugh from Anne. "No, Roger, I don't think we're related. Not a chance in the whole world or the ones beyond it."

"And just what makes you so sure?" he questioned with his hands on his hips.

"Trust me. Besides, how common can our last name be? Tons of people probably have the last name Winters."

"I've never met one until now," the handsome man confessed. It was then that Anne realized just how attractive he was. Roger was without a shirt or pants, only a pair of silk boxers. She saw his defined muscles on his chest, arms and legs—not so big as to be considered grotesque, but they made him appear formidable enough. However, ignoring his size, Roger's actual face was, in and of itself, as hard as the muscles in his body. His jaw was strong and pronounced, his goatee sharply pointed and skillfully trimmed, and his eyes were hard and black, possessed by a past as tortuous and unforgiving as her own.

While Anne was lost in the young man's cryptic eyes, Roger took a few steps closer to her naked form barely concealed under the ivory sheet. It wasn't until he was kneeling on the edge of the bed that Anne discovered he had moved. Roger slid a hand across the silky covers and up to her face, tracing her delicate jawbone with the back of his two fingers. Not knowing what else to do and unsure of what she wanted, Anne leaned into him, his other hand taking it as a "yes" to move in for the kill. He cupped her face and guided her head to look directly at him. Roger smiled before he brought her face to his own, his lips capturing hers in a bewitching kiss. He flicked his tongue across Anne's bottom lip, then suckled it into his eager mouth. The fire within the kiss was just too much for the young slayer to resist, and she reached out to encircle his neck and draw him even nearer to her, forgetting totally about the sheet that was the only thing between her bare chest and Roger's. Anne's breath quickened and her pulse raced as his hands feathered her hair then slid their way down her back.

Then suddenly, Roger pulled back far enough that their lips were still touching but he could whisper to her. "I might not get a chance to say this later, but in the very short time I've come to know you, Anne Winters, I think I've fallen in love."

With the mere uttering of the word love, Anne jerked away harshly, yanking the covers back up to her chin roughly.

Roger pulled uncomfortably away, unsure if he should have revealed what he just had. He turned his face so that she couldn't see his eyes as he spoke. "I'm sorry, Annie. If I said something or did, well, anything to offend or hurt you, feel free to walk out of here and rest assured I won't bother you again. I understand if last night was just a night of fun for you. I can't say it wasn't fun for me too. It's just that I'm not used to 'those' feelings, and ever since California I've tried to block them out. So please excuse me if I'm a little rough around the edges." He said that harder than he meant to, but Anne knew it wasn't his fault he was feeling what he was. "I haven't loved for years. It's something I never wanted to experience again, and I surely didn't expect it anytime soon."

"Could you just… leave me for a few minutes while I get dressed?" questioned the young girl in the unsure, tremulous voice of a child.

A look of almost excruciating pain fluttered across Roger's steely face as she spoke. "Sure, sure." With that, Roger grabbed a shirt and a pair of pants sullenly and eased out the door, the jamb clicking quietly as it shut.

@~~`~~~

The moment Roger had left, Anne relaxed her iron tight grip on the sheets just enough to roll on her stomach, throw a pillow over her head and moan loudly in sorrow. What did she get herself into now? It seemed to her that Buffy Summers was always the one getting into trouble, not Anne Winters. She felt as though this had been her first real mistake since… ever. This boo-boo wasn't made under the influence of the slayer. No, not this time. This was all Anne's doings, and that simple fact stung a helluva lot.

In order to make her feel smarter and wiser, Anne had used Buffy as a scapegoat, blaming all of her problems on the lingering effects of a past that wouldn't let go. And now, well, she had no one to pass the buck to but her stupid self. Two years of celibacy, two! And then she had to go and throw it all away for just one night of incredible, amazing, mind-blowing… what was she thinking? Horrible, horrible sex! Okay, admittedly, it was very good (actually, great), but still, Anne found it hard to believe that she threw it all away for a single night in man's bedroom. It wasn't even the fact that she had slept with Roger, merely that fact that she had felt something toward him. It was something mighty powerful, too, to get her to go to bed with him on the evening of their first date. That was what scared her most of all.

After the incident in Sunnydale, Buffy and Anne had both made an agreement that they would never again allow themselves to love, and since that time they had kept up their pact. Until now. The familiar stirrings Anne felt within herself could only be expressed as pure desire and infatuation; in other words, a big, fat crush. Ah, but those were for high schoolers, not for hard-core slayers and Brooklyn former waitresses. However, no matter how long she closed her eyes and no matter how long she thought of Angel, those feelings remained present. Once the seed starts to germinate, there's no turning back, as Buffy knew so well. Now they both were in for it.

Anne knew that at this low point in her life she needed company, and a boyfriend could give her that. The problem was that she didn't want one. She was afraid to commit, afraid to trust, afraid to love, but most importantly, afraid to end up alone. In the end, Anne knew, she would only lose Roger anyway, maybe to another woman, then again, maybe to a force of evil. It was the twisted way of things. Besides, she felt that these feelings betrayed Angel's memory. Buffy believed that to love someone would be to stomp on Angel's grave—even though he didn't have one. Naturally, this was an irrational thought, but the confused woman couldn't help but feel that way.

Angel had always been her one and only, a gift that came along once in a lifetime. He was every woman's desire and every man's nightmare-come-true. In Buffy's eyes, he was as close to perfection as anyone could get, despite the fact that he was a 244-year-old vampire. But now that he was out of the picture, this made room in Anne's life for Roger.

Another life, another man, she supposed.

So who was this guy Roger Winters anyway? He was every bit the mysterious man Angel was, if not more so. The details of his past were so vague that it was hard for Anne to even say she knew anything about him. But she knew more than she thought. She knew that other than being well off, Roger was refined, romantic, funny and compassionate. He had a good ear for listening and a warm touch for soothing. When it came to expressing his feelings, Roger was right; he was rough around the edges. But all of that was understandable because it was remarkably similar to her own situation. In addition to all of these things, Roger had destroyed her life. What would be considered a disaster by anyone else—as Anne had also seen it in the beginning—turned out to be one of the best things that had ever happened to her. This strange gentleman had freed her from the monotony of her life and had literally shown her a whole new world. And to think it all started with a little gum on the bottom of her shoe!

Roger Winters…

A real class act with some minor flaws. He said he was falling for her… her—a former waitress living in a dump apartment with one friend in the whole damn city! Roger could obviously see himself loving her, and now, finally Anne could see herself loving him, too. There was just one little problem.

Her past.

How could she explain it so he'd understand and believe? Should she even bother to explain it in the first place? How could she trust Roger when she didn't even know the details of his past yet? So much uncertainty and so little room for error. It had been a helluva lot easier with Angel, for he already knew who she was; there was no deception in the first place. To love someone new like this, with no idea what she was talking about, was to risk her heart, and that Buffy had done before.

But, of course, weren't risks what love was all about anyway? Risking her heart for Roger could be the greatest thing that had ever happened to Anne… if all went as the romance novels said it would. On the same token, it could be a repeat Angel. Like the flip of a coin—heads you win, tails you lose. A 50/50 chance. But it always seemed that the odds of losing were much higher when it came to the matter of love for Anne/Buffy. It was all about Fate—a deity Buffy had learned to despise for her cruelty long ago.

Oh, Angel, if you were only here…

But he's not! And he never will be again! So get over him, and move on with your life—at least the one you have left. 

Anne was engaged in a constant inner battle with herself, as always. This argument had played on in her head for hours at a time, but it never helped resolve anything. To win this battle, truly win it, Anne would first have to conquer Buffy and Angel. Only then would Roger stand a chance at winning her heart.

Okay! Okay! Enough with this thinking stuff already!

Anne rolled back over, still feeling slightly dead. She swung her legs over the bedside, relishing the delicious feeling of her feet sweeping across the thick carpet. No cold wooden floors in this apartment. Taking the sheet with her, Anne shuffled over to the closet and stole a terrycloth robe. Like everything else in the room, it was an astounding white, too. She felt as though she could sink right into the walls and never be noticed so long as she was wrapped in the white cocoon.

For a few minutes Anne debated on whether or not she should leave Roger's room for fear of another passionate confrontation with the handsome man, but quickly the thought of staying in there any longer left her mind the second she looked at his clock. 11:28. She'd been "thinking" for almost 45 minutes now.

Quickly, the ex-slayer gathered her clothes and sneaked into the hallway as silently as possible. Anne felt a trifle moronic for doing it, but she listened for any sounds that might indicate where Roger was so that she could figure out the easiest route past him and to the exit, if need be. She waited and waited and waited for Roger to make a noise, but after five minutes, Anne gave up and entered the living room.

The apartment was dead silent. Not even the hum of the refrigerator or the obnoxious blare of the television could be heard. Anne shut her eyes and strained to hear anything, but nothing was all her expectant ear received. 

Hesitantly, she called out, "R…Roger?" 

No answer.

"Roger?" Anne trumpeted again, making her way to the kitchen. The really scary thing was that she couldn't even hear the Manhattan traffic in Roger's apartment. Anne could always hear the Manhattan traffic; it was probably part of her by now. It was as if this place were off limits to the music of the city—only silence, pure silence was welcome here. The sound of her own blood rushing boomed in the woman's ears, beating like a pair of Indian war drums in the heat of battle. The quiet was as deep as the ocean depths, preternatural and unique to Roger's place. It was almost as if the supernatural had followed Buffy here.

But there was nothing mysterious about the smell seeping from the kitchen, although it was unfamiliar. However, once distinct aroma hit Anne full force and instantly she knew what it was. Bacon. A smell all but forgotten to the deprived slayer. Finally, Anne reached the kitchen, sensing the aroma growing increasingly more scrumptious with every footstep. And she loved it! It was a wonderful smell, like the fragrance of Willow's hair or Xander's cologne—things she'd made sure she didn't forget. She could hardly breathe enough of it. 

On the table was a beautiful set-up. Two sunny-side-up eggs, bacon and toast were cleverly arranged to form a smiley face on an enormous white plate. A hot cup of coffee and a cold glass of orange juice flanked the plate's right side while a smaller bread plate with a jelly doughnut on it sat to the left. A blood red rose in a tiny crystal bud vase with a neighboring note was in the middle of it all. Anne went to it first and tried to decipher Roger's scribbled mess, which reminded Buffy a little of Xander's total and complete chicken-scratch—although she had to admit that this was a bit neater.

__

Dearest Annie,

I made you breakfast in hopes that it would make amends for any mistakes I might have… pracle? 

Did that say pracle? No, wait, that was the word made. "Sure looks a lot like pracle to me," Anne laughed aloud, shaking her head, too. 

__

I hope you like it. Sorry I can't be there to… emfey it with you?

Oh, enjoy it with you. Okay, makes more sense now.

__

I had to run out for a bit. Bon appetite!

Love, Rog

Anne couldn't suppress the smile that formed on her lips after reading Roger's note. But how had he made all of this without her knowledge? Of course, she had been thinking intensely for the last half-hour or so, though the fact that she had failed to notice the potent aroma of the food sort of scared her. After all, when Anne had been the slayer she was able to smell a vamp 20 feet away, and now she was obviously losing the slayer touch if she couldn't even smell bacon from the other room.

Still another question unanswered: how had he managed to make the food so it remained hot and tasty for her? Oh, that Roger Winters sure was incredible. He never ceased to amaze her, or he hadn't yet at least.

Then, the whole world disappeared from around Anne as she hungrily devoured her breakfast.

@~~`~~~

After much vacillating on her part, Anne decided to spend what little money she had left to buy Roger something nice. No, not just nice, but something that said "I trust you" and "I care about you" and "Thanks." Roger, despite his earlier actions, had done so very much for her. He had helped shape her character, become her closet friend here, and loved her for whom she was (even if that person whom he loved was Anne). Still, he loved Anne, who was essentially Buffy anyway, minus the whole slayer deal. 

In return for all he'd given her, she wanted to give him something. "As if I haven't already given Roger 'everything,'" Anne thought sardonically.

Well, she wanted to get him something extra. Besides, she wasn't even sure if last night still meant anything to Roger after the cruel way she had reacted this morning. So the slayer borrowed a shirt and pair of jeans from his extensive wardrobe, got dressed and headed out the closest shopping district she could find. 

Annie locked Roger's door with the set of keys he'd given her last night on the street. At the elevator she waited patiently for it while her mind swam with the warm memories of the night before. Central Park shimmering as the moonlight played upon the snow. The quiet, romantic walk to Roger's home. Their dance. Their kiss. Their love-making…

The soft, melodious chime of the elevator bell plucked Anne from her sweet reverie, and although the actual images of last night had vanished, the tingling sensation they left in their wake remained with her throughout the entire elevator ride. "Angel never left me with these kind of memories," she mused. "That's certainly a plus for Roger."

On her way out the slayer stopped in the middle of the lobby—much like she did every time at Hornwaggler Apartments—and surveyed the scene with her cat-like eyes. All of the people scurrying about the expansive room were dressed in finely tailored clothes, silk dresses or fur jackets. Naturally, they all looked different, but the two things they shared in common: they were all filthy, stinking rich and absolutely none of what they wore was faux or cheap imitation. The men wore genuine Armani suits with a Rolex watch to match precisely, and the women were dripping with jewelry (most likely from Tiffany's) and smelled of the finest French perfumes. Even the doorman was wrapped in the finest uniform the apartment complex could afford to give him.

The room, both immense and immaculate, was appropriately decorated with comfy leather sofas, cherry end tables, fancy Oriental rugs, tiny crystal chandeliers and accented tastefully with ornate molding around the ceiling. The light touched every corner, and there was not a shadow to be found within the place. Huge windows in the front of the building opened the place to the street while making it feel airy and even more spacious than it was. They brought so much character to the room. Anne also noticed where the superintendent's apartment was located because of the over-sized cherry wood door. The slayer would have bet any money she had left that his apartment was as nice, if not nicer than Roger's penthouse, and probably twice as big.

After a pause to breathe in some of this rich life, Anne burst through the revolving door and into the crisp morning weather. The temperature must have dropped drastically over the course of the night because all of the snow had hardened into chunks of dazzling ice, glassy and treacherous. As hard as she tried to remember, Anne could conjure up no memory of the intense cold, only the heat under the covers. "Whoa! Hold up, Anne. You've read one too many romance novels," she scolded herself under her frozen twirls of breath.

Oh God, there she went again, thinking too much about what happened last night instead of watching where she was stepping. But of course, Anne placed her foot squarely on the slickest patch of ice in the whole damn metropolis and fell flat on her ass, taking down four other innocents with her. After grumbling many apologies to all, Anne slithered away, totally chagrinned.

While she searched hi and low for a suitable present, the slayer managed to slide on three other patches of ice, though magically none of those times she fell. When the people would stare and laugh, which they inevitably did, Anne would coolly say "Watch it" or "City really needs to salt these," and then she would walk off as casually as she could manage, fighting a slight limp. Then later, she stepped right into a puddle that miraculously hadn't frozen and soaked her right shoe and sock all the way through until she could practically feel the icy water in her bones. And, of course, as her day wore on, Anne only succeeded in injuring herself further, including scraping her knee when she tripped over a sewer grate, bruising her thigh when she ran into a bookshelf, and cutting herself on a page in the book through which she was leafing. It was a horrible day packed with misfortune after misfortune as far as anyone else would see it, but Anne still saw the world through a pair of rose-colored glasses—things she hadn't tried on for years. The only thing that bothered her was the question: "Where did all my slayer agility go?" Oh well, a question to ponder during another, more opportune time.

Her day was only made better when she found _it_. It was the perfect gift for Roger, and it was conveniently priced, too.

A thank-you card.

Okay, so it was a little cheesy, and it wasn't exactly a Rolex or an Armani suit, but he had those already. Besides, this was sweet and showed she actually put some thought into what she was buying him. Plus, this card would allow Anne to express all of her feeling about him without making an ass out of herself in the process.

When it all was purchased and done with, Anne went back to the pavilion in Central Park in the hope s of being inspired. 

Nothing remained to show that they had ever been there last night except for some glazed-over footprints and a spattering of candle wax. It was as clean as before, if not more so. Even the view during the daytime was different, too. The city surrounding her was as gray as the clouds, the oily, dirty smog running like wet paint onto the futuristic skyline. 

Suddenly, it seemed to Anne as if she were on an island in the sky, a desert tundra barren of all human life but her own. The sun above was just a dimly outlined circle in the heavens, covered by a blanket of ashen haze. Dead trees waved their naked arms in the breezes, moaning and croaking in pain as their stiff limbs quivered and quaked. 

She felt like she was floating free from everyone and everything, and Anne didn't like that one bit. It was dreadfully lonely on this island of despair. She yearned for someone to be here with her, someone that could make her fell warm in this cold place, someone like Roger Winters. Like magic he appeared before her, leaning thoughtfully up against the post just like previous night. His expression was the same, the look in his eyes identical. Everything was an exact copy of last evening, right down to the ridges in his suit and the rustling of his perfectly combed hair.

His gaze was centered on something behind her, and although she checked, the slayer could not find at what he was staring. Obviously, however, it was something pleasant, for the admiration in his eyes could not be concealed. When Roger took a deep, wistful breath in, it was at that moment Anne realized this was a replay of their dinner. He had looked at her with those eyes; he had dressed up special for her; he had smiled those smiles because of her.

The slayer stared harder at his image. Roger certainly was one of the most beautiful men she had ever encountered, inside and out. He reminded her of so much of what—whom—she had lost. There was a lot of Xander in this man, even a little Angel; however, the bitterness inside him was unidentifiable. That trait could be compared with no one she knew but her own self. 

Suddenly, Anne was inspired to write. Her hand scribbled expediently across the inside of the card because she didn't want to lose her idea, but also it was biting cold outside and she didn't want to lose her fingers to frostbite.

Snow began to fall all around her, throwing the misty gray world encompassing the pavilion into a wall of ivory. It was like someone had blown a thousand dandelions into the air, and the little white propellers were lost upon the winds.

As she finished up the card, the hovering island drifted back down into its proper place in the park, and Anne was once again united with the world. It was a wonderful feeling that coursed through her veins, a happy, everything's-right-with-the-world sensation. Anne couldn't wait to give Roger his present. She couldn't wait to see his face light up like Xander's used to whenever Buffy would walk into the room—that is, before she had left.

On her way out of the park, Anne stopped by the Befesda Fountain and relived the moment yesterday when they'd met for their first date under a dwindling sun in a bone yard of trees. How romantic that evening had been. The lighting had been perfect, the company delightful and the food delicious.

While meandering down the criss-crossing pathways of the park, the slayer remarked to herself how she hadn't been this excited to see anyone since the days of Angel, Willow, Oz, Giles, and God forgive her, even Cordelia. And Xander.

It seemed awfully weird to Anne that the more time she spent with Roger, the more she thought about her friend Xander. She couldn't help but notice the ever so slight resemblance between the two, and when she said ever so slight, she met almost infinitesimal. Of course, Xander would always aspire to be as buff as Roger was, but it was highly doubtful that he ever would be. And Roger had a fortune. And Roger was a lot less warm and friendly. And Roger also had facial hair. But all that aside, she still saw a few similarities within the two. Their humor. Their laugh. Their sarcasm. Their eyes; that deep chocolate brown present in a very select group of people. 

Strange, amazingly so, how being with Roger was changing her feeling toward Xander! Kissing Roger made her wonder what it was like to kiss Xander, and this seemed grossly unfair. It wasn't right for Anne to be dreaming about her former "friend" when she was with another man. Aside from that unjustness, Xander was gone—a part of her past that had surely moved on without her, probably to Cordelia. Still, Anne's latent romantic feelings toward the slayerette were emerging, and she couldn't think of much to do to stop them.

She sighed. Again with the thinking too much. Had her friends been here with her, they would most likely have reminded her about that. "They always do," she said aloud, "or, at least, they always had."

In the beating heart of the throbbing city again, the slayer hopped into a cab, yelling to the driver, "745 Ganesh Street, and hurry!"


	6. The Storm Breaks

Chapter 6 – The Storm Breaks ****

Chapter 6 – The Storm Breaks

Arriving at Roger's place a little after eight o'clock, Anne used the key Roger had given her to unlock the front door. She was quite surprised by the fact that their relationship had progressed so far and so fast that she already possessed a key to the place. The moment the door opened to reveal her, Roger swooped over, scooping her into his arms to plant a fantastic kiss upon her silken lips. When he broke away for a breath, Anne gasped herself, squeaking out, "Good to see you, too!"

A sigh of relief, as well as pleasure, escaped from him as he smothered her with tiny kisses all over her face. "I didn't think you'd be coming back. I thought you just ate breakfast and split." He kissed her again. "I'm so glad you're here."

"Me too. But just so you know, I'm not a one-night-stand kinda girl."

"I didn't figure you for one, but I have all these insecurities and I wasn't sure. You see, since I've known so many of those types in the past, I was scared." His voice dropped a few decibels with shame. "I used to be one myself for a long time. You know, love 'em and leave 'em."

She gave him a lop-sided grin while leaning deeper into his arms. "You used to be a girl? Roger?"

"That's my big secret, the part of my past I didn't want to share. That other woman I kept mentioning? Well, that actually was me."

"That' so…"

"Weird?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of gross."

Their gazes met in a fervent encounter, and Anne saw how deeply Roger cared for her. It wasn't simply affection he felt toward her, but oh so much more. In that moment in time the slayer could definitely see herself falling in love with this man. And then…

She felt a thick, heated breeze in her ear as Roger whispered, "I love you, Annie."

Then everything stopped: the howling wind, the city symphony, his ragged breathing, and her stampeding heartbeat. There was that phrase again. She didn't doubt it, but she couldn't return it. It was so hard to explain. Just the fact that he could say it so easily was infuriating when she could hardly even bring herself to think it. Anne wanted Roger, needed Roger, but she didn't love him just yet. And now with these totally bizarre, unfounded feelings for Xander, they only made matters worse and chances for true love with Roger slim-to-none. "How can you honestly say that?" she asked almost angrily as she pulled from his embrace. "We just met three days ago. Don't you think you're jumping the gun just a little, Roger?"

The powerfully large man leaned back to look at her in utter shock, as if he was completely surprised she couldn't respond back the same way. "No. For some reason I feel like I've known you forever—all the intimate details."

"But that's just the point; you don't! You don't know a damn thing about me, Roger. You don't know who I really am or what I am. You don't even know where I'm from! How can you love someone you don't know at all?"

Now he was on the offensive. "Maybe I would know you if you'd just tell me that stuff. Always so quiet and unwilling to share. How am I supposed to learn if you don't tell me?"

"And what about you, huh? You haven't revealed anything like that to me!" 

"What about our first night together? Who was the one that answered all your questions, and who was the one who refused to respond? I remember. Oh yeah, I answered all your questions. I'll answer anything. See, I'm open. You just have to care enough to ask to ask the question."

Oh, that hurt a lot more than it should have. Roger was fighting dirty. "Roger, I care a lot about you; I really, really do. I just can't say— "

"I love you," he finished bitterly.

"Not yet, I'm sorry," Anne replied, although she wondered for what exactly she was apologizing. It wasn't her fault that he loved her and she couldn't love him back. "Look, I don't want to hurt you, but you can't seriously expect me to say… _that_ this early in our relationship."

"Humph! What relationship?" he grumbled lowly. Then, in a louder, more assertive tone Roger answered her. "Oh, but I do."

That response knocked Anne for a loop, practically beating the breath out of her. "Ooh, Roger Winters! You pompous, arrogant son-of-a-bitch! How could you actually expect anyone to say those three incredibly powerful words after only knowing you a few days as just casual lover? And to have her mean them, too! That's ridiculous."

Back to the defensive. "It's not so much that I expect it…"

"What? You want it as some sort of sick payment for your 'services' rendered?"

"Never! It's more to see for myself if I should be investing my heart like I want to, and believe me, Anne, I really want to, desperately so."

"So let me get this straight. If I don't say I love you now, then you're gonna walk out on me and this relationship?"

He answered quite simply although tight-lipped. "Yes."

"That's just plain disgusting!"

Roger shrugged her comment off as if it were nothing and turned away from Anne. "Think what you like. I guess I don't care anymore. Besides, you don't know what it's like to wait for someone. The agony, the torture, the UNENDING PAIN!" he boomed with such ferocity it shook the building. She could hear the tears in his voice.

"I think I have some idea," she whispered meekly.

The dark-hair man shook his head. "No, Anne, you don't have the slightest inkling. From what you told me, you and your ex were very much in love, real, mutual love. I've never been that lucky to have the object of my affections care for me in return."

"But I do care!" she protested, exasperated.

"Dammit, Annie! Stop saying that! You're only making this harder for me!"

"Why does it have to be hard at all? Can't you just wait, let it play out?"

"NO!" he screamed even louder than before, banging his fist on a sofa table and almost shattering its glass. "Don't you understand that I can't wait anymore? I've been waiting for seven years!"

"What?" she asked confusedly. "Seven?"

"Seven very long years," he gritted sourly. "Two for her to realize I existed in the first place. Five more for her just to come home after she left. She never did, so I guess I should keep that meter running, huh? And now I've found you and you want me to wait another seven? Well, I'm sorry that _I_ have to disappoint _you_, but after my first experience turned as sour as it did, I discovered that nothing is worth that amount of torture and hurt I endured."

Her eyes were soft and sad, mimicking her voice. "You're wrong. Love is, it is. But, like almost everything, it takes lots of work. You can't just expect the other to love the same or as quickly as you do. You have to give her time."

He bit out a laugh. "You're saying that seven years wasn't long enough? Hell, maybe I should wait another three and make it a nice, even ten. Or how about I wait 18 more to make it our silver anniversary of NOT being together?!"

"Enough! Sarcasm noted and unwelcome," Anne interrupted. "I get your point. What was this wonderful girl's name anyway?"

"I'm tired of this conversation and all your games. I'm going to get ready for bed (though I don't think I'll get much sleep). I suggest you do the same."

Anne sighed, disappointed in his reluctance to share the woman's name after his whole spiel about openness. But, like her, it might hurt simply too much to speak the name. "Okay, fine. Where am I sleeping tonight?"

Without hesitation he answered. "Your apartment."

The fear was back, but the slayer refused to show any of it to him. And although she wanted nothing more than to cry until her eyes burned with the fire of salt water, Anne just wouldn't let herself do it while in his presence. Through gritted teeth: "Fine." She turned to the door roughly, throwing the stale air around her into a frenzy of tiny, invisible cyclones.

"By the way," Anne added, slamming the card so lovingly written onto the same sofa table from before, "here's a little something from me to you, just to show you how much I like being with you and how much I appreciate all you've done for me!" Again the slayer turned away from Roger to the door.

"God, I should've never come here. I knew I wouldn't find her—she doesn't want to be found." He was muttering to himself now.

Still facing the door: "Are you saying you're leaving New York?"

Without answering her, Roger stalked off toward the bedroom, leaving a distraught slayer in his wake.

Right now, more than feeling fear or sadness, Anne experienced seething rage—a bubbling cauldron of wrath inside her gut. Some people! They just knew how to push her buttons, and unfortunately, one of those people was Roger Winters. How was it that one man could be so romantic and beautiful one moment, and then so aggravating and maddening the next? For a brief instance she wondered what would Roger be like as a teenager. Was he as awkward and hormonally driven as Xander was, or had he been born this mature and already cold to the world? But all of that wonder was quickly eliminated and replaced with her natural anger.

Anne yanked open the door soundlessly, feeling the chilly air in the hall sweep through her and kiss her hand with its icy lips. It felt good, too. Her whole body was already numb with cold anyway; this was just a little refresher. As she exited, the slayer tilted her head slightly, and in a disgusted tone of voice that was hardly her own, she uttered, "Coward!" And she closed the door.

The hallway was even quieter than Roger's apartment. It was downright preternatural. She couldn't hear Roger; she couldn't hear anyone for that matter; she couldn't even hear the fucking city! Most of the time she despised that sound, but now she desperately needed it, like a drug fix. She needed something familiar to cling to, for now everything was out of sorts, bizarre and surreal. Anne wanted to immerse herself in the deafening symphony, submerge her ears in the droning of traffic and buzzing of electric lights. She wanted to listen till her brain went numb and she couldn't think anymore and the image of Roger's cold eyes was at last expelled from her mind. She wanted to feel the moment her brain dripped lazily from her ears and onto the littered pavement.

A sudden urge to escape the building flooded Anne's veins with ice, and she lost control of her legs. Sprinting like a gazelle over the Serengeti, the slayer pounced on the elevator button, pressing it repeatedly and urging it to hurry.

The tears began to spill down her cheeks, silent sobs escaping her lips. Anne had held them in before Roger because she didn't want him to see her cry; she didn't want to give him the perverse satisfaction. But now it didn't matter—nothing mattered—for she'd never see him again.

With a muffled ping the elevator doors spread open like the jaws of a famished beast. She entered warily, but let the monster swallow her up in a big, exaggerated gulp. Anne could feel herself plummeting down its gullet, and the feeling was driving her to her knees, her tired soul acting as a lead weight to bring her down and drown her. She felt nauseous. Anne wanted out, and she began to bang on the doors with her fists. "Let me out!" Anne yelped, sobbing louder now. Behind her screams, playing softly in the background was the familiar elevator tune "The Girl from Ipenema."

Abruptly, the ride stopped and the doors parted and Anne came tumbling out in a jumble of limbs, surprising the innocent bystanders. Embarrassed and upset, the slayer raced through the lobby, tears of innocence lost sliding down her cheeks and into the damp air behind her. She didn't care if these people saw her cry. Right now Anne wanted everyone to know what Roger had done to her, how bad he made her feel. No, she wanted the whole world to know. Anne cried harder.

The slayer flung herself into the revolving door and then burst into the winter air with the bang of a firecracker. Snow battered her exposed face like ocean spray against the sea rocks. The orchestra around her swelled to a crescendo as police cars and ambulances went screeching through the night to an unseen accident, or still likelier, a murder. Anne's eardrums burst with the songs of Manhattan—an unpleasant sound to most others—and it felt wonderful. Her body began to sway to the hidden rhythms as she concentrated her hardest on them. Now she felt nothing but the pulsing of the blood rushing through her head and the throbbing of the artery of the city on which she stood. No longer was Roger's devilishly handsome, yet haunted face glowing behind her eyes. The city was blocking it out, and that was exactly the effect Anne had hoped it would have.

The blustery cold hardly bothered the thick-skinned slayer, for she was too lost in the beat of the city to feel it. Passersby would stop momentarily to stare at this strange woman cloaked in nothing but a cheap sweatshirt and a pair of worn sweatpants, but would soon move on only to find an equally disturbing scene right around the corner. 

Snow affixed itself to Anne's hair, cementing strands of blond together in a knotty mess and freezing her scalp. Still, she never seemed to notice. The city's own private siren had her completely ensnared in its web of sounds and buried its musical talons in her body. And Anne would've been there all day too, if someone hadn't run into her.

The slayer stumbled clumsily over her feet and other's as well as she tried to regain her balance in a crowd of people. Someone crushed Anne's toes with her fashionable stiletto heels, and Anne reeled back against the wall in pain. As if her life didn't already suck enough! Suddenly all the sensations she had tried to fight from coming through exploded from behind the containing dyke inside her, and Anne felt a burning pain rip through her gut. She moaned terribly as the memories filled her. Her stomach knotted with fear, forcing Anne to double over. She needed to get away from all these people, and as much as she hated to admit it, the slayer knew that the only place free of these distractions was her apartment.

After hailing a cab and spewing out the address in a torrent of emotion-saturated words, Anne did her very best to relax against the sagging, springless leather seat by listening to the stop-and-go sounds of traffic. She vaguely recalled holding a brief conversation with the cab driver, but it was pointless chitchat, just like the stuff she engaged in with everyone else—except her Sunnydale gang… and Roger.

Speeding down Park Avenue from East 82nd Street, past numerous attractions for the mindless tourist, and to the Manhattan Bridge the cab buzzed ferociously, tearing up the asphalt and launching missiles of rock salt into the wind. Anne watched the familiar urban scenery fly by as light of the city and dark of the night became one unholy enemy on the horizon, creating stars not seen anywhere else in the heavens.

Once again she was semi-aware of a conversation she was having with the Turkish cab driver, but the details of it were all but lost to her. Something about the on-and-off weather New York had been having. She mumbled an agreement although she didn't know what the man was talking about in the first place.

Another silence befell the cab for a few more minutes before the cabby asked in a thick accent, "What you been up to layley?" 

Without so much as a thought, Anne's answer slipped out. "Falling in love."

Anne's eyes widened like those of a deer caught in the high beams of a speeding car, as did the driver's. "'Scuse me, miss? Did I ear ya krokt? Fall in luf?"

She didn't know how to respond, for she didn't want to continue this line of questioning any further. However, even if Anne had wanted to answer that query, she wouldn't have gotten the chance because he followed it up with another one. "Whoz lucky man?" Anne knew it had been intended as a compliment more than a question, but no matter which it was, it hurt like hell to answer.

"I wish I knew."

"You not know?" he laughed, amazed. "Zat possible?"

The giggle building within Anne's gut simply could not be stifled and it tumbled over her lips in great waves. It was true, she didn't know whom she loved: Xander, Roger, Angel? Things were happening too fast for her to find out with whom she wanted to be. Also, the expression on the driver's face in the mirror was priceless: a look of utter confusion. It was good to know she wasn't the only bewildered person out in New York City.

When she didn't answer his question, the driver took it as his signal to shut-up, and the cab settled into a comfortable, welcome silence. For a while, Anne didn't feel like throwing herself off the edge of the world and into a pit of sheer nothingness. She just sat there in the backseat, staring out at the colorful world around her—a world she had just finally begun to rediscover. As the car screamed down Fourth Avenue and opened to Lafayette, the swirling mass of neon lights passing by congealed to form a hideous, yet stunning palette of colors—like rainbow oil in a puddle of rainwater. It mesmerized the girl, capturing all of her attention. The hues flitted as if they were the secret, forgotten fairies in a thicket of wood, skating along the edge of reality and fantasy. 

And suddenly, the light disappeared completely, letting shadows fill their empty spaces they left behind so hurriedly. All of this happened the second the cab turned onto the Brooklyn Bridge. 

It was like driving into the snapping maw of a hungry Great White Shark, the colorless steel girders wrapping around the car like teeth. Anne felt trapped, swallowed and claustrophobic. The air stiffened like a starched sheet. She closed her eyes and counted to ten, willing away the bridge and the darkness and the evil. The rhythmic droning of grating under tires filled her head and throbbed right along with each beat of her racing heart. "Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop, make it stop," Anne chanted over and over again with each exhalation.

Finally, when she opened her eyes, it was all gone. The fear, for a short while, too, subsided. The bridge was already melting into the night behind her. Anne was safe, but for how much longer? She steadied her breathing, chewing her lip and rubbing her knees together nervously.

"You okay back der, ma'am?" the cabby inquired with concern as he glanced in his rear-view mirror at her huddled form.

"Yeah, yeah," Anne reassured. "I'm just… nevermind. I'll be fine. Don't worry about me. My day's been a bit strenuous, and I guess it's finally catching up to me." The man shrugged and, thankfully, left the slayer to herself. 

After what seemed like a thousand eons, the taxi reached Hornwaggler Apartments' littered and deteriorating doorstep. The slayer eagerly jumped out from the back, paid the driver, and walked to the front door. For once in her life, Anne opened the door with no problem. She was too full of other emotions to worry about something as small – it seemed – as her everyday worry. The old, creeping fear that she might never leave here was far from her mind. Right now she was more concerned about losing her precious Roger.

She ran through the brief lobby and up the four flights of stairs to Apartment 44. This time Anne didn't even take the time to notice the trip upstairs as she always had in the past.

It seemed that today was the day all traditions would be broken and the hindering walls were going to come down instead of go up.

Anne shoved her hands into her pockets to search for her keys and found she still had Roger's ring of four he'd lent her. As she discovered her own apartment key, she tried to decide what to do with his. It was too late to return them now, so tomorrow—after they had both cooled down a little—she would stop by with them, and hopefully they would kiss and make amends and go about as they had before, this whole mess behind them. Personally, she was hoping for more than just a little kiss…

Opening the door, the slayer entered her silent apartment and tossed her coat on the couch haphazardly; there were some traditions that could not be broken even today. It was miserably quiet here, just like in Roger's place. And just like in Roger's place, that silence spooked her. 

Anne was tired, so very tired. Everything today had just zapped all her energy, as if a giant monster from her Sunnydale past had remained hidden in the shadows and drained her strength all day. She found it hard to concentrate anymore on anything but Roger or sleep. Responding dutifully to her body's urgent cries for rest, Anne waddled into her bedroom, stripping quickly, then slipping on her nightgown. She switched off the light and crashed into her bed… alone.

One would think with how tired she was Anne would fall right into a gracious sleep, but she didn't. Instead, she lay awake, staring at her stained ceiling, thinking about only one person. Roger was who was keeping her awake. She couldn't get his voice out of her head. "I love you." "Dammit, Annie!" "Don't you understand that I can't wait anymore?" "God, I should have never come here."

"Oh, Roger," Anne sobbed into the darkness. "Please don't go. Don't leave my soul to be ravished by these city vultures. Just don't leave me." Everything penned up inside her spilled out awkwardly, tears gushing in rampaging streams. "Don't leave me…"

The sobbing went on for hours, almost until the sun rose from its bed over the horizon. Eventually sleep came to her, but what little of it was granted by the Sandman was fitful and restless, for it was marred with strange and macabre dreams.


	7. In the Aftermath

Chapter Seven – In the Aftermath ****

Chapter Seven – In the Aftermath

Central Park, or so it seemed, lay covered in a blanket of fresh snow. Off in the distance Anne could see the jagged peaks of New York's tallest skyscrapers. As she scanned the terrain, Buffy turned around and saw the flat tops of the buildings and warehouses in Sunnydale. "What's going on here?" she wondered aloud, her voice booming as though she were in the Alps. There was no sound, just deadness. In fact, there was such a dearth of any noise that it hurt her ears just to be immersed in total silence. "Where am I?"

To Anne's left, New York; to Buffy's right, Sunnydale; straight-ahead, Roger. "Oh, thank God," she murmured as she raced to his embrace, "something normal." His arms adjusted to fit perfectly around her waist as he whispered something unintelligible in her ear. Anne willingly stepped into the hug, burying her face into his rough-hewn shoulder. "I'm so glad you're here… wherever here is." Roger only replied by pulling her closer and reaching up to stroke her soft hair. She softened under his gentle touch, nuzzling his thick neck with her hot cheek.

Without warning, Roger pushed her away lightly, and to her complete surprise, he was no longer Anne's Roger, but Buffy's Xander! The impish smile was the same, as were the coffee-colored eyes, but Xander was much smaller and he was missing the goatee, not to mention, his eyes possessed a vibrancy that Roger's lacked. However, the look of love was present in both men's eyes. 

"What's going on?" Anne implored in a tremulous voice, not her own.

"I love you, Buffy," Xander confessed almost painfully real for any dream. 

"Oh, Xander!" Buffy dove for him, wanting to hug her long-lost friend tightly to her, but the moment her fingers touched the fabric of his shirt, he dissolved in watery mass of pigments. His whole body grew larger suddenly and more muscular, then it started to take on the form of her familiar friend Roger. "I love you, Anne," he said, his voice more mature than Xander's but filled with the same pain of wanting a love that he could never attain. When she reached for Roger, again he changed to become her darling slayerette. 

Anne was starting to panic; this was all too weird, even for the slayer. Sunnydale and New York as one? Xander and Roger the same?

The fairy tale moon broke the skyline, arms of silver grasping at the night and dividing the heavens into wedges. With its rise, chaos awoke from its dreadful daytime slumber, and its horrific reign was thrust upon the land. As the earth around the pair began to shake, a finger of wan light from the orb descended upon the scene, illuminating all under its ghostly tip. Every shadow mysteriously vanished to whence it came. No secrets could be held back under the revealing glow of the silver-haired celestial woman.

Roger became almost transparent, a ghoulish shell with a surprise inside him—Xander. While the moon climbed the sky at a fantastic rate, a shadow was cast at Anne's feet. Although it was Roger standing before her, it was Xander's shadow cast on the ground by some ancient magic spell. Her eyes lifted from the earth beneath her and to the man before her. "Who are you?" Anne bleated, throwing a punch at the chest of the Roger-shell.

Then, totally synchronized, they responded. "I love you." Their voices danced in the air and melded together in a gleeful realization. They were the same voice, one only slightly more twisted with experience. "Xander?"

"I love you, Buffy." Xander finally emerged from Roger's body. He reached for her hand, but the second they touched, the ground beneath them shifted. From the sidelines, New York City came rushing along the horizon, as did Sunnydale. The two cities collided in the empty lot behind Xander and exploded with a fiery fury. Debris flew everywhere, chunks of metal and bits of building littering every imaginable space. Buffy yelled something even she could not hear to Xander, but the words were lost in the noise. Still, she managed to retain a great meaning in them, something that made her feel whole again.

Xander was no where in sight. 

And there Buffy stood—alone and amongst the rubble—until the wickedly grinning moon had set over the hills of white snow and red fire.

@~~`~~~

She woke up panting, sweating, terrified. Within the darkness she could still hear the last word she said. Xander. The walls were sponges in this place and they retained all that they heard. Anne could see the carnage around her—the broken buildings, shattered glass, and twisted metal. Her soul quivered at the very thought that Sunnydale had been destroyed. She could care less if New York had been.

As she let the cold overtake her body, Anne tried to sort out the meaning of the dream. Every time she had ever dreamt, it meant something, and this time was surely no different, no matter how far she ran away from her slayer past. The past could never be escaped. Never. 

Could Roger be Xander? Surely not. They were just too different. Xander was jovial and outgoing. Roger was moody and uncommunicative; sometimes he barely spoke one word. Xander was fun and funny. Roger could be both of these, but he was too busy keeping his hurt feelings bottled in. Xander was, well, Xander, and Roger was, well, Roger. Besides, Roger was all muscle, and as for Xander… about the only thing he could lift was a box of doughnuts. Lastly, Xander lived in California, and according to Roger, he had only "been there." Night and day, day and night.

Oh sure, these were all reasons why Roger couldn't be Xander, but almost all of them could be disproved; however, Anne refused to let herself do that. There was no way she wanted Xander to be Roger. Granted, it would've been great to be united with her best friend again—especially after all these years—but the very thought that she might have had sex with him was, well, a little bit frightening. Xander was too good a friend and he knew too much about Buffy for her to want to sleep with him. Still, that hadn't stopped her from going to bed with Angel, but this was different… totally. Right? 

God! Trying to sort through her own life was like trying to separate sand mixed with dirt. 

Anne rubbed her watery eyes and looked at her clock. Only 2 a.m. The day had barely begun and already it was a nightmare. Just like three days ago, the slayer could tell it was going to be another hell day. But at least the last time had had some pleasant side effects for a while…

Knowing that she wouldn't be able to get back to sleep this morning, Anne flicked on her television and skimmed her select (selected by the city, that is) few channels. Settling on the classic movie The Bad Seed, she squirmed in her bad until she was relatively comfortable and let her mind wander into the captivating plot of a child murderess.

The hours slipped by slowly. The room glowed of white and black from the flickering screen, reflecting off of Anne's face as she mindlessly stared ahead of her. From the movie to infomercials including the Juiceman and Revitalift, no TV show was safe. Anything that was on was fair game. All she wanted was to preoccupy herself enough so she couldn't recall the gruesome details of her dream—at least she didn't want to think about it now.

At a little after quarter after six the sun came up, lighting her room with a red aura as its hungry rays tried to force their way through the crumbling curtains. Blood filled the place, coating everything in sight, including Anne. She gasped the split second she realized the crimson color had overtaken her bedroom. Believing she might still be in the grips of the macabre nightmare, she frantically scrambled out of bed, pinching her arm painfully the whole time. It was a childish reaction, and although no one was there to witness it, Anne remained embarrassed because of her immaturity. For Christsakes, she was 21 now and she was still wigging about a little nightmare. "Nothing to be afraid of," she soothed aloud. "It's just the sun, not blood. Anyway, Buffy's seen way worse—she's seen the real stuff. Relax." God, how she wanted to, but Anne simply couldn't. Her string was wound to the breaking point, and the deceiving look of the scarlet morn was enough to tug it further, almost breaking it.

It was at that point she that heard the newscaster's sorrowful voice blaring needlessly loudly from the television screen. His dour face reflected practiced sympathy and sorrow. "Funeral services were held yesterday for Kevin McCarthy, the 19-year-old boy struck by a rogue Wonder Bread truck. It seemed the tragedy that befell the youth brought sadness to the hearts of everyone in Manhattan, for practically half of the city turned out for his showing. Driver of the truck, Casey Laughlin, is being held at the county prison to await his trial. On a lighter note—" 

Though Anne tried to listen to the rest of the broadcast, her mind wandered to Roger for about the billionth time in a day. Was he watching this newscast, too? She hoped not because, if it hurt Roger as much as the last time when he heard the McCarthy tearjerker, Anne surely didn't want him to subject himself to that intense pain anymore.

And although these thoughts filled her mind to almost its maximum, the slayer couldn't help but ask herself if he were thinking about her. No, probably not. Roger probably had moved on to someone better already, someone who loved him in return like he wanted. Why would he spend all this time moping about a whiny, old bitty like her when as easy as 1, 2, 3 he could surely find some prettier, smarter and richer woman than she! With his good looks, money and talents, a guy like Roger Winters would have no problem attracting the women, providing his personality didn't scare them away.

Anne unexpectedly grinned. She had just realized that she was most likely the only woman out there who could stand to be around that man 24-7 and be happy about it. If that were true, maybe she did love Roger the way he wanted her to at least a little. But he would never believe that, not even enough to wait and see if it could be true—not after the things she'd said at his apartment. 

The slayer sighed, shaking the thoughts from her head. Later on today when she had to return his keys, Anne would confront him about it. As for right now, she was starved. She hadn't eaten since noon yesterday, and even then, it was a meager hot dog… with the works, naturally.

In the kitchen, the light of dawn filled the room. Despite the plainness of it, the kitchen looked fresh and new in the sunny, no longer sanguine glow. Anne almost liked the place for a minute, but when the reality set in, any warm thoughts of it instantly faded. This was Apartment 44—her apartment—and it was merely an accidental hole-in-the-wall Mr. Hornwaggler tried to pass off as a livable place.

Squinting from the pure, brilliant sunshine, Anne struggled to make her way to the refrigerator in the blinding light. She opened the fridge door to look inside only to discover that it was almost empty, except for a jar of expired mayonnaise, a few eggs, some orange juice and a half carton of 2% milk. At least there was something from which she could make a breakfast, and she always had her meager reserve of cereal hiding in her cupboards. 

After her light, but filling breakfast of generic brand Cocoa Puffs and OJ, the slayer dressed and left the deteriorating house in search of someplace to go where she could wait and gather her thoughts and plan what she was going to say to Roger.

Down the stairs. Down, down. The descent into madness as well as Hell had begun. Nothing but a pit of darkness to engulf her the moment she slipped and fell into its ebony arms. Suddenly the trip up the steps ceased to be of any importance. Only down meant anything to her now.

Third floor.

Yesterday had been the day to end all days. It had started off fantastic. To her utter delight, Anne had awoken with pleasant tingles tickling her insides. For the first time in years she had let all her inhibitions go flying out the window—Roger's bedroom window. For one morning she had let herself live again, let herself feel again and let herself have fun again. Only to ruin it later.

As the day progressed, Anne had bought the card and poured her heart out—as much as she was willing to let out—into its paper boundaries. Anne thought that just because she cared that was going to be enough for both of them. But enough is never enough. She thought she didn't need love to make things with Roger work. She thought that so long as they had fun together, they could be together.

Naturally, Anne had been wrong.

Anne had learned the hard way—yet again—that relationships don't always pan our to be the way she wanted them to be. Apparently, Roger had found that out, too. 

Second floor.

Tuesday had been the magic day. The only day in Anne's book where everything went right. That had been the day of the amazing shopping extravaganza on which she had gone, where Anne had bought the silver dress that now hung lifelessly in her bedroom closet. Certainly shopping on Fifth Avenue had been an experience that changed her view of life for the better.

Then came the twilight/moonlight dinner in Central Park. Roger had literally appeared from the shadows dressed like the Prince Charming of her sweet dreams. The slayer could still recall how handsome he looked, could still taste his chocolate eyes. She, herself, felt like a princess in her gown. Everything was perfect down to the minutest details.

What she most clearly remembered was the conversation. Anne had never in HER life let someone know so much about her past, her present, her thoughts on the future. She had let Roger know things only Buffy's closet friends would know, stuff maybe even some of them didn't. And as for Roger, as far as Anne could tell, he had done the same. The slayer had never thought it possible to share such things with anyone but the Sunnydale Scooby Gang; however, she'd been wrong again. In Roger, she had found a confidant and a good listener and someone who cared. That night had just brought out the best in both of them.

First floor. 

Monday, three days ago—the day that everything had gone wrong—was the lone day that had changed her life permanently, almost as much as being the slayer had. That had been the worst day of her lifetime, yet conversely, the best. Roger Winters (at that time, Hogan Vlinters) had entered her existence with a bump and a shower of papers. They hadn't exactly started out on the right foot; in fact, they hadn't even been on any feet what they met. The pair had exchanged a few harsh words, then went their own ways, thinking—or rather hoping—that they would never meet again. 

So, naturally, as was the twisted way of Fate, they saw each other again! Miracle of miracles, lo and behold, there was Roger, sitting down at one of her tables, under the guise of Hogan Vlinters. He had driven her crazy all evening, forcing her to run around like a chicken with its head cut off. 

Finally, by the end of her workday, Anne was exhausted and weary and ready to go home… for good.

Fired. Unemployed. Out of a job. All because of one Roger Winters. Oh god help her (or rather him) if she ever laid eyes on him again, she had thought. The slayer had a feeling she would go ballistic if Roger even walked past her on the other side of the road. 

And then in the alley, he had mysteriously reappeared in her life, just like Angel used to do—out of the darkness. It had felt so good to punch that arrogant face… twice.

And soon everything had changed. Somewhere along their adventure they had crossed the line from being enemies to friends to, then later on, lovers. How it had all come about was a mystery to Anne, but it had, and she was glad it had.

In the lobby at last, she tried her best to clear her mind of all thought before she set out on her journey with an unknown destination. Anne had already done enough thinking, and she was sure there would be plenty of time for that later. Now she needed help to figure out this nightmare of hers…

After wandering the Sunnyside streets aimlessly for almost an hour, Anne gave up on finding a quiet place to go and instead found herself directly in front of Skippy's bar. She ambled up the stairs and opened the other bar door.

Inside she found the place to be completely empty other than two loyal drunkards and a familiar bartender. "Hey, doll eyes!" Eric cried from behind the counter covered with bottles of every conceivable alcohol.

Doll eyes. Eric had called Anne that since the day they met at Skippy's Diner. He claimed it was because she had green eyes that were identical to his sister's childhood Madame Alexander doll.

"Hey yourself!" Anne yelled back, slipping behind the bar for a brief embrace. "I didn't know you worked with Skippy?"

"Just started a measly month ago. Got my fancy schmancy bartender's degree, and could probably get hired anywhere with it, but I've got a loyalty to the old man. Besides, couldn't think of anyone else I'd rather work under."

"I see you haven't stopped kissing Skippy's ass even now."

"Hey, what can I say? I don't deny it. So anyway, when are we meeting for our wild, uncensored, unadulterated night of passion and sex?"

"I also see you haven't reached puberty even now," Anne sighed, slapping him playfully across the face and smiling in spite of herself. "Where's Skip? He awake yet?"

Eric shot her a surprised look. "For as well as you know the man, doll eyes, you still don't know that he's up almost 24 hours a day?"

"One can never be sure with him. Better to be safe than sorry, I always say."

"Yeah, and I always say, Roses are red, Violets are blue, what day next week will be good for you?"

"Eric," Anne yawned in exhaustion, "when will you get it through that watermelon-sized head of yours that I will never sleep with you?"

He looked dejectedly at her, his eyes crying. "A man can have his dreams, can't he?"

"Not when they concern me. Now, where's Skip?"

"In his place," Eric informed, pointing her toward a door well concealed within the brown paneled walls. "So you really won't sleep with me?"

"Nope, sorry, bud. I'm just not that kinda girl."

As Anne walked up to Skippy's door she heard Eric talking to the small crowd. "You hear that, fellas? Doll eyes is shootin' me down!" There was a slight murmur as the men acknowledged him; they only cared that he existed when they were looking for a refill.

"I'm not the first, I'm sure."

"No lady has ever said no to the E-man."

"That's because you paid her a fortune to say yes," she joked, opening her friend's door. From the side of the barroom, Eric's head shot up with an idea. "How's a 100 bucks sound?"

Anne opened the door, stepped inside and then turned and said, "Bye, Eric!"

"200? 250? Doll eyes—" And she shut the door behind her before he could be allowed to continue.

@~~`~~~

Skippy's apartment never failed to shock her. It was clean and orderly; nothing was ever out of place. Magazines were stacked and filed with all other magazines, and CDs were categorized then placed alphabetically within each genre of music, i.e., classical, rock, blues, etc. The floor was vacuumed and the windows were wiped streak-free. It always seemed funny to Anne that Skippy could keep such an immaculate house yet be the sloppiest dresser. 

"Skippy?" Anne called, hoping she wouldn't wake him if he were asleep.

From the back room she heard a groggy voice ask, "Zat ya, Annie?" Oh no, she had awoken him. Now she felt particularly bad because Skip was an insomniac—first class—and if he'd finally fallen asleep and she had woken him back up, Anne would feel shitty about it the rest of the day. 

"I'm sorry, Skip. I woke you up, didn't I? I'll go and—"

"Na, na. Ya didn't get me up. I've been up since yesterday morning, just haven't had my cup of coffee yet." A stout, white-robed man emerged from the hallway, shuffling sleepily on the carpeted floor. "Waz wrong? Ya wouldn't be here if there ain't somephin' wrong."

"Nothing, I—" But Anne saw him give her the patented "Ya're Lying" look, and she cracked like an egg. The slayer ran to him, flinging herself into his arms. "Oh, everything, Skippy. My whole life is falling apart! I thought I was safe here in New York from this hurt and confusion!"

"What are you talkin bout, Annie?" the bartender queried, rubbing her back in consolation.

"Please, don't call me that. I'm so sick of that name."

"Wat'd ya wanta be called?"

"My real name…" She stopped. Could she speak it? Did she dare even? "Buffy."

"Buffy? Buffy? Wat kinda name is zat? And just who are ya and wat'd ya do with my Annie?"

She pulled reluctantly from his warm grasp and seated herself on the couch. Tears trickled down her cheeks and glistened on her lips in the lamplight. Suddenly everything poured out of her, whether Skippy wanted to hear it or not. "My name is Buffy Anne Summers. I'm from a little town outside of Los Angeles called Sunnydale. I'm not from the Bronx at all. I'm what they call a vampire slayer."

"'Scuse me?" Skippy shouted unnecessarily loudly, doing a double take as well. "A wat? Now, Annie, I mean, whoever you are, there is no such thing as a vampire. Ya've gone loony on me. Did this Roger character do this to you?"

"Yes and no." When she realized her train of thought was being derailed, she immediately shook her head and jumped back on track. "Skippy! Listen to me! You're the only one I can trust here in New York! I've got to ask you to believe the crazy things I'm about to tell you. My sanity's hanging by a thread—"

"I can tell," he muttered under his breath.

"—and I just have to tell someone before that thread breaks. Can you be the one to listen?"

He paused to muse over it, but he finally nodded tentatively, relatively curious to know the girl he thought he knew. "Kay, go ahead with yar story. I'll listen."

"Thank you," she whispered gratefully, taking his hand and touching it affectionately to her cheek. "Thank you.

"I'm the person known to the supernatural community as a vampire slayer, a woman chosen every generation to fight all evil and preserve life and the Earth."

"Why does 'is sound like somephin' out of a horror film?"

Buffy ignored him and continued with her tale. "With the help of my watcher, I was trained to fight vampires mainly, but also demons and mythical creatures and so forth."

"Waz a watcher?"

Oops. She had forgot that Skippy had no clue about any of the upcoming terminology. She would have to do a lot of elaborating. "He or she is someone appointed by the Council—a group of people who monitor the supernatural world and set the guidelines for slayers and watchers—and watches over the slayer, obviously, while providing guidance and reassurance, as well as information.

"Anyway, I've done battle with the worst monsters your mind can conjure, but I've defeated all of them. It's in my job description to hate all vampires and to destroy all of that nature that step across my path. However, the same Fate that cast me as the slayer was the Fate that made me love what I am supposed to abhor."

"Come again?"

Buffy smiled pleasantly, feeling more and more at ease with each passing second despite the topic of conversation. It was all coming out, without the tiptoeing around everything. This was the unedited version of her life. "He was a vampire with a soul. His name was Angel. I fell in love with him at first glance, and he fell in love with me, too. Everyone warned me not to pursue a relationship with Angel, but it wasn't a force I could control. One night we consummated our love—"

"Ya mean ya knocked boots?" he asked innocently.

"Yeah, Skip, that's true. I was aiming for a more sophisticated phrasing, but that's essentially what happened. Anyway, long story short, he lost his soul and became evil, and he killed some of my friends."

"M'God, Annie! Wat happened then?"

"Angelus tried to destroy the world via the power of an ancient demon, so I had to destroy him. Ran a sword through his heart and sent him to Hell, real Hell."

"Ya killed him?" She nodded. "So he's the old man ya were talkin' bout. Ya really killed him?"

"Yeah," she mumbled solemnly. "He's the one reason why I'm here."

"How long ago was 'is?"

"Five years."

"Oh Annie, why didn't ya ever tell me?" Skippy questioned with hurt in his eyes. She wanted to cry at the sad sight.

"I couldn't tell anyone. Just thinking about him pained me more than I ever thought possible. I didn't want to find out how it felt to talk about him. I told Roger about Angel, but I never used his name nor did I go into quite so much detail as I just have. For some reason I didn't want Roger to know about me. There's something about him that makes me want to keep the details of my secrets to myself. And that's why I really came to talk to you. I need someone with whom I can talk about Roger."

"Talk away… Buffy."

Buffy poured her heart out about this man. She informed Skippy of every little thing that went on between them, then moved on to the big stuff, such as Tuesday night. "My Annie did that?" he gaped, with a father's shock at his daughter's brazenness. "But she would never even would glance my Eric's way when he asked her out."

"Got news for ya, Skip: Eric's a womanizer. Anne was wise to avoid him."

They exchanged brief smiles of comfort before Buffy continued with her tale. An hour ticked by like an eon. She was starting to grow hoarse from all her talking, but she had never felt better in her life. Now the slayer had someone she could trust; now she had someone whom she could talk to; now she had someone who knew the real her—Buffy Anne Summers. She informed him about her emerging feelings for Xander and the dilemma she had placed herself in with their startling arrival.

Then it came time to tell him about her dream from last night. Buffy was scared to recount the events to anyone, including herself, but she knew that if she ever wanted to figure this nightmare out, she had to do it now while she had the chance. 

By the time the slayer had finished her dream, Skippy's face had passed through five different phases: intrigued, mystified, scared, shocked, and, finally, confused. "So ya think this Roger fella is yar Xander?"

"I don't know; that's why I came to you. I was hoping that talking with you might help me make sense out of it all."

Skippy scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Well, let's compare and contrast. How're the two 'like?"

Good idea. This would be very beneficial. "Roger and Xander both are from California, I guess. They both had bad luck in love. Roger's story fits the same time period as mine, and he is Xander's age. Their family backgrounds are almost identical, except that Roger's dad is dead."

"Anythin' else?"

"Just that they both loved me for a time, or so I thought." She bit back the tears in her eyes. Why did everything have to be so hared for her? The slayer felt a hand on her shoulder and she looked up at its owner. 

"They still love ya, Annie… I'm sorry… Buffy. Trust me." Buffy nodded even though she remained unsure of that fact. "Les move on to the differences."

"Okay… First of all, Roger's a house compared to Xander. And he's a lot meaner, too. Oh sure, Xander had a few moments in time where he could be cruel, but he was nothing compared to Rog. And his eyes are so sad and longing. Xander's eyes were always vibrant and full of life and love."

"Things can change a person dramatically," Skippy observed wisely, nodding purposefully at her.

"Still… I've never seen so much pain in anyone but myself. And Roger's wealthy. The Xander I knew rarely had a quarter to buy a gumball with.

"So, Roger can't be him. There's no way. It's just too much change for only a five year period. Besides, Xander would have recognized me for sure. He knew me so well."

"I hat to inform ya of this, deary, but ya've changed quite a good bit yarself, I'm sure. For one thing, yar'nt killing vampires no more, and both physically and mentally ya've matured. And as for him being changed too much in five years, haven't ya seen folks in yar line of business that have changed more in five seconds then Xander ever could in his life?"

"I suppose that's true, but everything in my mind says that's completely illogical and unbelievable."

Skippy squinted at Buffy, his forehead crinkling into a thousand tight wrinkles. "Since when is yar mind always right? Wat's yar heart tellin' ya? That's the only one aside from Roger that knows the truth."

Buffy paused to look deep within herself for the answer. Skippy was right; only her heart held the truth. Suddenly, her eyes snapped open with shock. "My Roger is my Xander!" Silence descended for a few minutes as she grasped frailly at the realization. Roger had been Xander all along. She had fallen in love with not Roger Winters, but her old friend Xander, whom Buffy never thought she could love like that. She had slept with not this millionaire with all the right moves, but the broke teenager with hardly a clue about what he wanted from a relationship. Oh, the delicious irony of it all—a whole plate full of it.

"Go get him, Buffy Summers. Go tell yar Xander that ya love him, and no matter wat ya mighta said before, ya will always love him."

The most genuine grin Buffy had ever conjured appeared on her beautifully confused face. "When'd you get so smart about this stuff?"

He replied devilishly, "Just one of the many facets of Skippy Vollteller that ya don't know a thing bout."

"What a delightfully mysterious quote. Maybe I'll have to take the time to uncover all your secrets."

"Maybe ya should. It's give us a chance to get reacquainted—or perhaps I should say introduced… Buffy Summers." She hugged him fiercely, as if she didn't want to ever let the man go.

"I'm so glad I came to see you, Skippy. Thank you forever for this."

"Yeah, yeah. Save it for later. Go get that man of yars. He's waitin'."

Buffy nodded in agreement and hugged him once again before getting up and waltzing to the door. She looked back at the robed Santa Claus watching her from his couch. For sure the slayer would never forget what he did for her, for Anne, mostly. Skippy had given her renewed hope in a situation totally out of control. Now she was going to reclaim the love she had lost when she left Sunnydale post Angel—all thanks to Skip Vollteller. "Bye," she whispered gently, closing the door behind her.

"Go get that man of yars," her mind echoed. "He's waitin'."

"Here I come, Xander, my love…"


	8. Longing for Winter

Chapter Eight – Longing for Winter ****

Chapter Eight – Longing for Winter

The day had turned out exactly the opposite from the way the weatherman had predicted it would. The buttermilk sun fried Manhattan's inhabitants and melted the snow banks with its searing rays. Puddles of filthy gray water collected in the pothole-ridden streets and evaporated under the orb of light pinned to the stainless blue sky. It was relatively warm for a winter month, too—close to 55 degrees. People who hadn't seen the city since winter came thundering in emerged from their places of residence and roamed about the streets, soaking up the heat of a day like they probably wouldn't see for the next month.

Despite the fresh look of the morning, Buffy had the sinking feeling that this was nothing but a bad omen. She was learning very slowly that signs that meant good fortune for others meant the exact opposite for her. It was just like that day when she'd returned to Sunnydale in hopes of a joyous reunion. The afternoon had glowed beautifully, but the day had soon turned ugly with the rotting of friendships and souls. This was probably the same course today was going to take.

Buffy stepped up onto the curb after she exited her cab. The whole city was absolutely buzzing with activity. The music was as fabulous as anything played in the Metropolitan Opera House. Only in New York could chaos such as this be considered a magnificent symphony.

Tugging her shirt in nervousness, Buffy approached the revolving door of Roger's apartment complex—or should she say Xander's? Her breath caught in her throat as her fingers touched the wooden frame. She didn't know if she were strong enough to confront him, not after what she'd done to him. Buffy had given up hope of ever seeing any of the Sunnydale crew again; she'd given up the idea of hope completely. There had been times in Anne's existence where she'd seen suicide as an option, a very doable one. Xander would be disgusted to hear what she almost resorted to. He had obviously never surrendered to defeat, even after every dead end he encountered. God, now Buffy was disgusted with herself, too! How could one man have so much faith and a woman have so little?

Tentatively, Buffy pushed on the door and walked through, chewing her bottom lip fearfully. The elevator seemed like it was a thousand miles away rather than 15 feet, just an ant on the horizon.

At the same time she felt this sickening fear, the slayer also felt unbelievable joy. Xander had found her! Or rather they found each other. Her long-lost friend had returned to her side, and the best part was that he didn't even know it!

And another feeling Buffy experienced was shock—more like embarrassment. She had slept with Xander. Not Roger Winters, but Alexander Harris! The mere thought made her cheeks flush. It was very hard for her to believe that fact when she had spent so many years deflecting his advances roughly and breaking his heart repeatedly. It was even weirder that Buffy had kissed him like that: with such passion and fervor reserved for only Angel. Deep down, the slayer had always been intensely curious as to what it was like to kiss Xander; she had always been furiously inquisitive as to how his lips tasted. And now she knew. She knew EVERYTHING about Xander physically now, something she never imagined she'd know about him. Like that birthmark right above…

Stop! she scolded herself. You know where those thoughts will land you!

The last thing she felt was scared—scared of her feelings for Xander. In a way, this turn of fate made it easier to sort her emotions out because she didn't feel as though she cared for two different people. On the other hand, it made everything else just that much harder. Where would these feelings lead her? Would heartbreak ensue, as it often did? Surely it had to, for she was Buffy Anne Summers. Queen of the Loveless. Hell, she might have lost him already because of last night.

"No!" she screamed to herself. "If I fix this right now, I can save us, and Xander and I can be together!" Buffy looked quickly to her left and right to make sure the path was clear. As she glanced right, the slayer notice the doorman looking at her quizzically, as if wondering why she were there. The look was not meant to offend her in any way, but it was more along the line of curiosity. But why?

Buffy shrugged it off, saving it in her memory bank to be analyzed later. Instead, she walked hastily to the elevator she'd come to know so well and stepped in, making the ride up without incident. 

In the silent hallway of the top floor, nothing stirred, not even the air. The sound of the city didn't blare; not one tenant made a sound; the outside world didn't move. Buffy entered the hallway wearing a frightened countenance. Something was wrong for it to be this deadly quiet.

The slayer stalked over to Xander's door, removing the ring of four keys from her pocket. She fumbled around with them, the tinkling of metal practically making her ears bleed in the resounding silence. As she searched for the correct one, Buffy fingered the so-called "none-of-your-business" key. What was that for anyway?

"Geez! All these questions, I feel like I'm back in high school," Buffy laughed almost bitterly. She shoved the key into the lock and opened the door.

  
Everything inside was exactly the same as last night, except the air was different—it was empty. Instead of anger or exasperation filling it, nothing did. The whole pace just felt barren. Roger's apartment was ice cold. Veins of crystal silver formed spider webs on the glass, translucent spiders sitting primly in their centers. The windows shuddered in the fantastic gales and the walls trembled in the approaching storm. Buffy watched amazedly as her breath slipped silkily around her fingers, tiny white snakes snapping at their tips with foggy teeth. How cold was it in here anyway? The slayer shoved her hands into her coat pockets, massaging their flesh into the wool fabric.

"Roger?" Buffy called hesitantly, expecting he would not answer to Xander's name. "Are you here?" No answer came, just the howling wind. "Hello?"

"Yesssss?" Mother Nature hissed back cynically.

"Roger?" she asked a little more anxiously. She rubbed her forearms furiously now, trying to generate as much heat as possible. Lightly, Buffy padded across the floor toward his bedroom. "Rog? Are you in here?"

"Yesssss…"

She worried her lip as she treaded tentatively down the hall. "Where is he?" Buffy whispered.

"Here…" the wind whispered back.

"Roger!" the slayer screamed, rattling the windows in their panes. She want to—as crazy as it sounded—scare the wind quiet. She wanted it to shut-up and stop taunting her. This time the wind did not reply, merely banged in silent fury on the glass. 

Satisfied with the quiet for once, Buffy approached Roger's bedroom door, twisting the golden handle. It opened, hushed, swinging fluidly on it brass hinges. 

The ghostly white world inside was tinted unearthly gray-blue—the color of the clouds before a great storm hit. The bed was perfectly made, the sheets tucked sharply under the mattress, not slept in. The entire room was spotless, like the clean of an apartment before it was sold.

Sold!? Oh my God! That's why it was so quiet! Buffy flew over to the camouflaged closet and plunged into its silky black depths. Empty. Not a single shirt hung from the clothing rack, only naked hangers. The drawers were barren as well. In the mirror glowed the shadowy reflection of, not Roger Winters, but Buffy Summers and Anne Winters. A perfect line of sharp black divided her face into two parts: the darkened side was the slayer; the lighted part was the waitress.

"You! It's your fault he left us!" Buffy growled.

"No," Anne sobbed, a tear forming in her eye. 

"Oh, like that'll do any good. How many times have you cried over Angel, huh? A thousand, a million? Did it ever change anything? No!"

"Shut-up! Go away! I don't need you."

"But, Anne, you _are_ me."

"I am not! I'm better than you; I'm stronger."

The right side of Buffy's face contorted wryly as that side of her mouth curled into an evil smirk. "Oh yes, so much better than I am. From the look of it, it seems your life is an even bigger disaster area than mine is. You don't even have any friends! And as for being stronger, well… You'll never match the immense slayer power you once possessed, and emotionally, well, you're more confused than I've ever been in my entire life—"

"Enough!" Anne screeched aloud, the glass rattling angrily in protest. "None of this is my fault, I don't care what you say! Not Roger, not Xander! I'm not even my fault—if that makes any sense. It's all because of you; it always has been and it always will be."

"Tsk, tsk." Buffy's right finger waved precisely in the air. "Don't try and pin this mess all on me, my dear. I refuse to take any credit for your mistakes anymore. As I recall, you're the one who wouldn't fess up to her own feelings to the man that she loves. I had nothing to do with any of it."

"Hah!" her counterpart laughed with scorn. "Buffy has always been the driving force in my life. Her spirit haunts me; her memories permeate my mind. I am what I am because of that witch. Or should I say that slayer?"

"Come, come, Anne. We need not act so very childish. Anyway, we're straying from the only topic we care about right now… Xander."

"Roger, you mean. Yes, we have to find him and fast, before he does something foolish. Remember what he said last night in his fit of anger? 'God, I never should have come here.' We've got to hurry; we haven't much time."

"Welcome back to being Buffy… Buffy. There's that slayer desperation and determination I know so well. What're you waiting for? Get going!" This time it was Anne who smiled. She dashed out of the closet and went on a search for clues as to where Roger had gone. "Like the good ol' days of research in the library with the gang, huh?"

"I guess. Now where should I start looking?"

"Try all of the drawers." Anne obeyed her second personality's commands to the tee without protest and rooted through all of the drawers in his apartment. "There's nothing in any of them!" Anne whined, a slight panic in her voice. 

"Calm down, Annie. Geez, I would never have reacted like this."

"Sure you wouldn't…"

"Oh be quiet. Go check the living room." Buffy was starting to sound exasperated. This Anne girl was really starting to get on her nerves. As much as they had in common, they were totally different people whose lives were moving in totally different directions, and that frustrated her to no end. How could she have allowed herself become this woman? How could she possibly be such a weakling inside?

She walked into the dead living room, finding most of the same furniture from before. Through every drawer in the room Buffy and Anne had searched. With one to go, the two were losing all hope of finding the information for which they so desperately sought. "Last hope, Buffy. Odds are there isn't anything in here to help us."

"That's what the odds almost always are, but they aren't against us, you know. Slayer sense says there's something in there though."

"You and your slayer sense!" Anne said, rolling her eyes. "That really never did you any good, you know."

"Stop trying to stall, Annie. I know you're afraid. Remember that I am a part of you, and I experience all of your feelings, too. Just open the drawer, and trust me."

"Oh yeah, trust you. You who ruined my life!"

"Your logic, Annie, is more bizarre than anything I ever fought."

"Shut-up! I'm in charge of this operation now!"

"You wish!" Buffy cried as she assumed control of her old body. "Sorry, Annie, but you've been in control long enough. I've hibernated like a good little girl inside you long enough. It's time for Buffy Summers to return from the brink and take what's rightfully hers!" Finally, the old Sunnydale slayer resumed power; the original finally conquered the replacement. She was home!

Fast as lightning, Buffy ripped open the drawer to uncover a huge, unexpected surprise. A picture. All doubts that Roger was not Xander faded into an abyss that very second. Here was a picture of a scene Anne had long-forgotten, but Buffy refused to leave behind her. 

Almost six years ago in a thriving little town in California… Sunnydale. How wonderful that day had been! Xander had been taking pictures of their picnic left and right. She remembered how it had been just her, Xander and Willow, alone in a blazing field of yellow and white flowers. This was one of the photos her friend had taken—of her and Willow, grappling on the blue-and white-checked blanket. The slayer vaguely recalled the source of the fight being over some king of dessert, only she couldn't remember what that dessert was. She remembered Willow's taunting and then her surprised shriek as Buffy pounced on her. She could even recall Xander's cheering and his bright, casual laugh at their girl fight. How she treasured those precious times. It was hard for Buffy to even think about the bad things after remembering something like that.

"You were wrong."

"Oh really, Annie? About what?"

"You said this drawer would contain something that would tell us where Xander is."

"No, I said something was in the drawer. I never specified what."

"Now how are we supposed to find him? We don't even have a single lead to start us off!" Buffy paused at this remark and pondered it for a moment. She was right. "Of course, I'm right! We'll never find him now!"

"Oh relax! Xander had no leads on me, but still he found me in New York."

"Correction, he found me."

"As though it makes a difference! I was always inside of you."

"Okay, fine, Buffy," Anne relented. "Yes, he found US without any leads—"

"And we didn't even know where we were going to end up! That's impressive."

"Took him five years though."

"Well, like I said, he didn't have any leads."

Anne sighed. "Enough of this debate. How are we going to find the man we love?"

Buffy pondered again for a moment, very aware of the fact that Anne could read her every thought. Finally, she settled on one. "Oh, that'll never work, Buffy. He won't know anything."

"Didn't you see that look he gave me on the way up here? He might have been working when Xander left. The doorman could know at least a little something, like which airport he went to, or if he took a bus instead. It could happen."

"Ludicrous!" Anne cried. "Impossible!"

"Such pessimism from a previously optimistic girl."

"Me or you?"

"Hah, hah," Buffy laughed humorlessly. "Just put all your faith in me, Annie. I promise we'll find him."

"How do I know your promise isn't an empty one?"

"Because," the slayer soothed with her light voice, "you can feel my sincerity. Do you think I would lie to myself?"

"You have before… about Angel." Buffy remained unnaturally quiet, Anne feeling her body tighten with pain. "Sorry, I didn't mean to say it like that. I—"

"Forget it," Buffy interrupted. "Angel's not important anymore. Priority Number One is Xander Harris. Can we just move on now? The doorman's shift might end soon, and if we don't want to miss what he might have to say, I suggest we get our asses in gear."

"You're right! Let's go!" Buffy smiled inwardly to Anne to thank her for her cooperation. 

The slayer pocketed the beautiful photograph and slipped out the door, locking it securely behind her. In the hall, she scurried to the elevator, boarded it and rode it to the first floor.

At the end of the lobby, silhouetted by the gray smog of the outdoors, was, luckily, the same doorman from before. His frail, tiny figure burned as he was outlined by a rim of steely fire from the street lights. His facial features were blackened; however, his body shape was precisely illuminated in brilliant gray and blue and yellow colors. The man's arms were bony and thin, and his spidery hands appeared skeletal as they protruded from the bulky, faintly green suit jacket. His head was an oblong balloon attached by a string of a neck, and it looked about ready to float off into the atmosphere. 

The closer Buffy got to him, the darker his face became—a mask of midnight black like Anne's customers typically wore. But barely visible underneath the shadow was a face. It was gaunt and weathered from age and work. It had chapped lips and a long, sharp beak in its center. His eyes possessed shadows along their green rims. Although his job required him to be cheerful and welcoming, he didn't look the part at all.

Warily, Buffy approached the doorman and greeted him. "Excuse me, sir?"

"Yes, miss? May I help you with something?" Old age permeated the waves of his voice, which sounded more like a goat's than a human's.

She paused. The man sounded perturbed with her. "Uh, yes, I mean, I hope so. I was wondering perhaps if you knew where Mr. Roger Winters went? You know, the man in the penthouse?"

"Mr. Winters moved out early this morning around ten o'clock. The movers are coming at about eleven in fact, so in about ten minutes. As for where Mr. Winters himself actually is… I haven't a clue."

"You didn't see him leave or anything?" Buffy asked incredulously, amazed that the doorman of all people would not see such a hulking figure leave while on his duties. "Maybe you at least know where they are moving his stuff?"

"As far as I know, every item of furniture is either staying in the apartment or being donated to charities. And do not be mistaken, I called the cab for him myself; however, I do not know of its current whereabouts. He did not inform me."

"You didn't hear him say anything to the driver as to his destination? No clues to his headings?"

"My, my. Aren't we an inquisitive young girl?" The withered tree scratched his jutting wooden chin with his scraggly branches. "Lemme think here." And he did. His emerald eyes fluttered back and forth as though searching for the memory. "I seem to recall faintly hearing the words 'J.F.K immediately!', but there where many cabs in front of this building at the time, so I could be wrong. These old ears ain't what they used to be."

"J.F.K!" Anne screamed inside Buffy. "He is leaving! He's probably already gone!"

"Come on, Anne," Buffy whispered to her inner self, "we can still make it if we hurry." "Sir? Do you suppose you can call me a cab?"

"Well, ma'am, that's usually a service reserved for tenants only… But I can see you're really desperate to find him, so just sit tight. This time only, okay?"

Buffy grabbed one of his bony hands and squeezed it as lightly as she could, just to let him know how thankful she was for this favor. "Thank you so much. I'll forever be in debt to you, sir."

"My name is Albert, and don't mention it. Anything for a fool in love."

"Who exactly is a fool here?" Albert grinned a toothy grin at her and padded over to the front desk's telephone. A few minutes later he returned, saying the cab was on its way. "Why don't you take a seat, miss, while you're waiting."

Buffy seated herself in a chestnut brown leather chair with a view of the street. "My name is Buffy, Buffy Summers, and I can't thank you enough for what you've done for me."

"Like I said, Miss Summers, don't mention it. When I was your age, I had a love I would do just about anything for, too."

"I mean no offense to you, Albert, when I say this, but when I originally saw you, I thought you to be a very unsympathetic, if not down right mean guy."

Albert smiled wryly. "How's that old adage—Good morning, Mr. Symmons—'never judge a book by its cover.'"

"Definitely," Buffy confirmed, returning the grin while thinking back to Roger. Originally she had thought him to be gruff and rude; she never imagined all the wonder he possessed underneath that disguising skin. Buffy could have never thought her Xander could be under the Roger exterior when she first met him on the street, but after spending time with him, the slayer could see so many parallels, it was hard for her not to realize Roger was Xander.

Albert alerted Buffy to her taxi's presence outside the front doors, waiting impatiently in the gray morning. She shook Albert's hand and smiled graciously. As she sped through the spinning doors, Buffy heard the doorman yell, "I expect to see you and Roger again soon!" She waved brightly, running to the dingy yellow bee humming next to the sidewalk. 

Clambering into the backseat, the blonde ordered her driver to take her to J.F.K. airport as quickly as he could get her there. The bee buzzed away down the narrow street and straight into an artery pulsing with traffic. Her driver was quite the navigator, for they were through most of Manhattan in less than 15 minutes. "Wow! That's some skillful driving! We'll be in Queens in no time!"

"No!" Anne yelped inside. "You just jinxed us!"

"What're you talking about?"

"When you're optimistic in a time for pessimism, then Fate kicks in to serve up a helping heap of dramatic irony!"

"That bitch!" Buffy growled aloud, startling the driver. "Oh no! Not you, sir! Sorry, muttering to myself. Ignore me, please."

Then faintly she heard: "Done."

After that, the pair rode along in silence because Buffy, sensing the man's overt surliness, decided it better for him to keep his mind on the task of getting her to J.F.K. than on petty, unimportant conversation. Besides, she liked the quiet… on occasion.

Buffy sighed. "It appears you were right. I'm a moron," she muttered to Anne.

"Oh, this is terrible, just terrible! Look at this traffic! Lined up from here to kingdom come!"

"Okay, relax. Be cool," Buffy ordered, not entirely convincing herself. The rainbow of cars stretched to the horizon and onward. Not one more car could have been crammed onto the expressway even if God were to intervene from the heavens. "We'll get there," Buffy repeated, trying to reassure herself. "We'll get there, and we'll find him, and we'll finally get that storybook ending."

Brake lights flashed in the hovering sky like lightning bolts of fire, at times turning everything blood red. Horns blared in the air like thunderclaps of cymbals, occasionally deafening the cab's passenger. And the traffic storm raged onward, never relenting for a moment. It was as if each car was permanently fused to the preceding car's bumper. 

"How much longer, Buffy?" Anne asked impatiently.

"Your guess is as good as mine."

"That wasn't the answer I was looking for."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I can't estimate travel times when we're stuck in traffic like this," the slayer groaned.

"Why don't you use your precious slayer sense?"

Buffy frowned overtly. "Hey, hey. No time to get nasty. Besides, our cabby'll think of some way to get us out of this jam."

Anne scoffed at this. "Yeah right! He probably doesn't even speak our language, Buffy."

"That doesn't mean he can't get us to J.F.K. any slower than any of these goons on the roadway could. In fact, I'll bet they'd get there 100 times slower even if they spoke English." Anne sighed resignedly and accepted this minor defeat… for the time being. No doubt in a few minutes she would be whining again. "Hey, Buffy! I can hear you're thinking. Watch your mou—mind!"

The blonde rapped gently on the divider window between the front and the back. "Yes?" he asked, with an unusual enunciation on his "s"; it sounded particularly long and snake-like.

"Is there another possible short-cut we might take to get to the airport any faster and maybe avoid some of this god-awful traffic?"

"Trust me," he hissed sinisterly. "I'll get you there in plenty of time to catch your flight."

"Sometime today," Anne clucked.

"Quiet!" Buffy ordered, even though the driver would never hear Anne. "Ah, well, if you say this way is faster, though I don't see how…"

"You want to drive? No? Then trust me." As reassuring as the man tried to be, he failed in his attempt quite miserably.

With this unending traffic and no exits in sight, Buffy was rapidly losing confidence. If the river of cars didn't relent at all very shortly, there might be no chance to catch Xander before he could leave her. "Maybe he's stuck in this traffic jam, too."

"Why, Anne, I do believe that was the first bit of optimism I've heard out of you since, well, ever."

Anne chortled roughly. "That wasn't optimism. I was just thinking logically. With this many cars and only, like, a 45 minute start, I think he's still in this mess or just now coming to the end of it, where ever that is."

"Oh, Annie…" Buffy stared silently out the highly scratched window of the cab at Queens Boulevard. The roadway was barely visible under the blanket of cars and the occasional truck. How were they going to beat this traffic with so few exits and little to no chance for a detour? Buffy wondered what was going through the driver's mind. Was he panicking, too, because he couldn't navigate through the cars? She hoped not. If he couldn't think of a way to escape the jam, there was no way that she could reach the airport before even the latest international flight departed.

Finally, an exit glowed heavenly off in the distance. "Take it, take it…" Buffy muttered lowly. As if reading her mind, the cabby inched into the turn-off lane; however, dozens of other drivers seemed to be in the same mindset, but at least they weren't numbering in the hundreds. "To Woodhaven Blvd." a small green off-road sign read. "Yes! We're outta here! We're gonna—"

"Shh! Don't jinx us again!"

"Sorry." As they pulled onto Woodhaven, Buffy marveled that the traffic actually flowing in the streets. Fabulous. "You're lucky I stopped you when I did, otherwise, this would be backed up to Manhattan like the expressway!"

"I sure am," Buffy confirmed laughingly.

After driving for what seemed like forever, the car sped straight onto Cross Bay Boulevard and then slid effortlessly onto the brief Interstate 878, which offered a lovely view—if not a slightly polluted one—of Jamaica Bay.

Ahead of her, Buffy witnessed dozens of toy planes glide up and down in the paper air, their elaborate decals beaming colorfully against the steel backdrop. Stout, oddly shaped towers poked up from the flat land obscenely. Tiny, blue lights flashed rhythmically in a long cerulean wave.

The closer Buffy got to the airport, the more things she could see. Minute yellow transports with a blinking bulbs on their heads bustled across the runways, hefting heavy crates and luggage on their steel arms. People of all colors and races scurried throughout the parking lots, toting their black bags and luggage carriers. Children held their mothers' hands; lovers kissed goodbye; friends embraced each other. Buffy couldn't find Roger anywhere. Only mothers and children, lovers and friends.

The car turned onto the road into J.F.K. and slowed as it once again encountered a slew of traffic. "At which gate do ya want to be dropped off?"

"Doesn't matter. The international one would be fine." Her driver nodded, acknowledging her. He weaved through the other cars dangerously while they searched desperately for parking spaces. The cabby pulled up to the main entrance, and Buffy readied her purse. "What do I owe you?"

"$24.80"

"Wow," Anne commented.

"We were in the taxi for awhile. I expected as much." She reached into her wallet and grabbed the cash. "Here you are. Thank you very much for the rush." She tipped him generously before exiting the taxi. The moment both feet were safely planted on the pavement, her driver sped anxiously away, leaving her gawking blankly at it as the stream of exhaust strangled the loveliness of the land.

Buffy turned toward the glass entrance doors and stepped toward them. They whizzed open smoothly, as if gliding on air. The slayer watched mystified, as the moment the doors drifted open, a pulsing, writhing stream of people flooded in and out. Never touching, for that was the ultimate sin. Don't look at him, honey. Eyes straight ahead. Mind your own business and they will mind theirs. No time to talk. He's only out to rob you or worse.

She could practically hear what the people were thinking. They were so cold. Never once did anyone's eyes stray from their focus on the back of the leader's head. They were like robots following a strict regiment of rules inside their mechanical minds. Buffy swaggered uncomfortably along with her line, into a sub hallway decorated with a wall of monitors, each displaying a running line of arrivals and departures. Prague, Los Angeles, Helsinki, Chicago…

Where? Where would Xander go? Pittsburgh? Singapore? London? Would he go back to Sunnydale? There was a plane leaving for L.A.X. in 20 minutes. But why would he go back to the place he had abandoned? He would probably continue his quest for his Buffy. But, of course, she was a hopeless romantic, as indicated by her reading material.

"Okay, Buffy! Think, think," she yelled at herself. "How do I go about finding him in an airport with ten terminals? Take into account the fact that he could have changed his name again and that he has enough money to fly anywhere…"

"Ugh!" the slayer blurted aloud. "Too many variables and too little time!" She began to panic again. "Whaddo I do? Whaddo I do?" Putting her head in her hands, Buffy swore angrily at the air. "Shit! Where could he be?"

A heavy hand fell on her shoulder, strong and masculine. "Excuse me, miss," a thick voice said, sending Buffy's heart racing, "need some help?" 

When she turned to face him, however, she found he wasn't Roger at all, just some random, kind man. "Ah no… Actually, maybe you can. Could you spare 15 minutes? If not, I understand."

The lanky man glanced quickly at the wall clock. "I suppose I could. I am running on a tight schedule, but anything for a damsel in distress."

"My knight in shining armor," she smiled sweetly. "Great! If you could just meet me back here in 15 minutes, that'd be swell."

"Well, what do you want me to do for you?"

"Oh yeah, I suppose I should tell you that. I need you to help me look for someone. It'll be kinda hard because I don't really have any picture that could help, but with my description, he shouldn't be too hard to spot… I hope."

The thin man scratched his chin in contemplation. "No picture, eh? Well, gimme the best description you can then."

"Okay, he's pretty tall (5' 10") with mahogany hair and eyes. He's very muscular and has a pronounced jaw coated with a neatly trimmed goatee. No glasses or tattoos or earrings. Nothing like that at all. He dresses like he's wealthy, which he is, so that might help, and he answers to the names Roger Winters or maybe Xander Harris."

"'Scuse me? Two names? Which one do I use?"

"Try both. If he doesn't answer to one, try the other. If he looks exactly like I said but doesn't claim either name, make sure you watch his face for reactions; he might lie to you."

Buffy's knight looked quizzically at her. "Why are you sharing all this with me? You could just as easily pushed me aside to do this on your own."

"I need help. I hate to admit it, but I do. I can't find him on my own, especially in J.F.K. of all places, and since you offered to help, well, you're the perfect person for my purposes."

"Now why does that sound deliciously evil?"

"I don't mean to be rude to you—after all, you are helping me out here—but we need to get moving. If you could do as much of that wing as possible, I'll take this one. We'll meet back here in… how long?"

"15 minutes."

"Right. Now remember my description. Xander shouldn't be too, too hard to spot." They broke from their huddle and headed off in their own directions. As she raced through the swarm of ants, Buffy called out to him. "Hey, buddy! Thanks!"

He turned, smiling a smile Anne had never seen in New York City. It was kind, with soft edges and a warm glow. This wasn't a man like the rest of the cold-hearted New Yorkers she knew. He was helping out of the goodness of his heart. It was crazy. "Name's Clint, and you're welcome!" Clint raced off, searching frantically as he faded into the buzzing masses.

Buffy grinned at his memory, but not for too long because she had a mission to accomplish. The slayer navigated expertly through the swarming madness, dodging people and transports as best she could manage. Her eyes scanned everywhere with complete efficiency and as fast as they could. But she could find no one fitting into the Roger Winters' mold. Like looking for a needle in a haystack. Somehow the old maxim seemed to fit her situation perfectly. Buffy only hoped Clint was having better luck than she was having that day.

@~~`~~~

Her 15-minute time limit was almost up when Buffy finally reached the end of the international wing. Still nothing; no clues to her Xander. He was no where in sight. She glanced quickly at her watch and realized she had to get back to their rendezvous point near the entrance. Running as speedily she could through the mish-mash of cultures and countries, the slayer snaked down the pathways leading her back to her starting point. But never once did she stop staying alert for Xander or Roger or whoever he was now. He might have been in a bathroom when she had gone up originally and now he was out, or something like that. It was possible. Right? Of course, for in the realm of the vampire slayer, anything and everything was utterly pausible.

Finally, Buffy reached her starting point and looked anxiously about for Clint… hopefully leading Xander to her, as well. But there was nothing to see but clouded, staring faces, floating free from their necks, or so it seemed. Nothing but black and white and red splotches on the air and scattered throughout the terminal—feathers on a breeze. The astounding array was a bit bewildering, but exactly like the rest of New York City in that respect.

The exact second Buffy's watch ticked to signal the end of the fifteen minutes, Clint appeared mystically out of the bombardment of free-floating balloons. Whereas everyone else wore emotionless masks, Clint had a sullen, sober countenance plastered dutifully on. Not the most optimistic of signs. "Anything?" Buffy queried impatiently, knowing the dreaded answer before it came.

The twiggy man avoided her eyes as best he could as he shook his head no. "I couldn't find a single guy out there that looked like him. Every one that could have been a possibility consistently had one aspect that didn't fit into your description." It was obvious that this guy felt terrible for letting her down; it was all over his embarrassed face. She guessed he wasn't used to failing, but of course, neither was she. And although Buffy felt her heart plummet at the news, she reached out to touch his hand and to comfort him, for the foreboding instilled within her the moment she had opened Roger's apartment door had stayed all the morning long.

"Thank you for everything you've done for me, Clint. Even though we didn't find him here, that doesn't mean he isn't in one of the other nine wings, right? Maybe I still have time to catch him, huh? But I have to hurry if I want to catch him."

"I'll help."

Buffy lifted an eyebrow skeptically. She didn't doubt his willingness to help, but she recalled what he had said to her in the beginning. "Aren't you running on a tight schedule?"

"Well, I still have about 20 more minutes maximum before my plane boards. If I hurry and leave all my luggage with Gregory at the gate, I could—"

The slayer drew the line there. No, not this time. She wasn't drawing another person into her mess when it could be helped. "No, you couldn't. You have to get going where ever it is that you're headed. I won't make you miss the plane for me and my impossible quest." And that's when it hit her. This task was impossible. J.F.K. was massive by any measure, and with none of the terminals connected directly, how was she to move fast enough? Even with Clint, her chances of finding Xander were from zero to zilch. All this effort and energy only to be let down in the end yet another time. Such was the life of Buffy Summers and would forever remain that way.

"But I want to help!" he protested uselessly, failing his arms to demonstrate his willingness. "There's still a chance I can find this Xander-man for you."

"Go, catch your plane, Clint. And don't worry about me anymore, for heavensakes. Things always work out for me (though maybe not always well). Don't make my bad day even worse by missing your flight outta this hellhole. Promise me that." Reluctantly he did, but not until he had slipped her his cell phone number and strictly ordered her to call him later that evening to inform him of what happened. "Fine, fine. Now get out of my sight before you make me sick!"

With her steady urgings, her new friend Clint disappeared back into the crowd, waving a long goodbye and wishing good luck. Buffy smiled, but her heart felt empty. She wouldn't quit until she had checked every wing, though by now she was assured failure. 

How could she let him slip away again? For five years Buffy the Vampire Slayer had remained lost to the world, and when one man finally recovered her, she lost him! 

The next hour dragged on into the millenium and then into the proceeding one. Every nook and crevice she scrutinized in hopes of uncovering her beloved. But his discovery was not written in the cards as was the way with many of the things Buffy desired out of life. 

At last, Buffy Summers and Anne Winters stood before one of the many windows cut into the walls of the international wing, where she had ended up yet again. Her forehead pressed up against the window, some of her extreme weariness seeping into the thick plated glass though not enough to lift her spirits. She tried her hardest to suppress the tears of agony and pain and found that she had developed the clever ability after years of continual practice. They did not come flowing out as she had suspected. Instead, they drowned her fatigued soul inside in a churning sea of unreleased sorrows. For a moment her soul buoyed on the surface, but a strong undertow pulled it down to the water's uncharted, murky depths. With its loss went her existence. 

So it was with empty eyes the slayer witnessed countless planes take flight and land—an unceasing cycle, just like life and death; love and pain. It was at that moment—as she watched those numerous jets on the runway lift their steely wings into the blustery air—that Buffy stumbled awkwardly across her great epiphany. She hard finally remembered her words that she had screamed to Xander in her dream the night before. Slowly and with great tenderness, Buffy slid her delicate hand up the icy glass, absorbing the cold through her fingertips. There was a pleasant tingle as the tears inside her froze, capturing her spirit in their frosty fingers. Her eyelids fluttered open to reveal a sleek 747 glinting under the painted white sky. The forms of the passengers inside were barely shapes at all. But it didn't matter. She wasn't speaking to them, but rather to one person, with her whole heart. The slayer pressed her lips lightly to the window and whispered, "I love you, too, Xander LaVelle Harris. I love you, too."

THE END


End file.
